Rust

Days have colors. There are gray Tuesdays, those Tuesdays when you wake up in the middle of a cement block, as if you’ve got to be chiseled out before you can even get out of bed, into the shower or to the store. There are blue Sundays, those that are spent lying on a sofa, or walking around town without a plan, directionless, no idea what to do, while you miss something of your whole heart, but you’ve no idea what exactly it might be, because those Sundays don’t want to give away any answers, they just want to color everything and make the day indolent and lazy and blue. And there are red Fridays, Fridays so red they last all night. They last way into Saturday morning, into the late morning and the evening, all the way into the night. There are Fridays so red and shining that they last through Saturday night and Sunday morning, in the same clothes, the same sneakers, in some apartment where you wake up lying on some sofa or other, or, if you’ve been really good, in a bed, with a naked princess by your side. Those that only exist when you’re young, and you’ll die young, and you’ve put god knows what into your system.

This Thursday was yellow. Yellow like an old polaroid. Yellow like an old running jacket you only use inside your apartment, but that you used to use all the time.

Pedro Carmona-Alvarez, Rust

via(and translated by): Daily Meh

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