WE SOMETIMES HEAR THE WORLD IN TECHNICOLOR

My dog and I are on the same 

SSRIs. We sometimes hear the world 

in technicolor. We hear the hum of the 

train tracks and feel responsible for 

rebuilding the rubble and hurt we pass 

by. I’ve been medicated since age 15; the 

movie Primary Colors made me cry at 

age 10. “Why can’t we just give the 

campaign money directly to the people 

who need it for education and food?” I ask 

my mom as we drive back from the movie 

theater in the Subaru, winding our way

under the Stony Creek train bridge, 

through the muted marshes. The world’s 

sadness seems to bellow from chipping

paint and wood siding, the world goes 

gunmetal gray, a muted splintering.

My boyfriend in graduate school told me

my emotional range was just too much 

for him as we sat on the beach made of 

shells. Razored mussels digging into my heels.

But there are certain bursts of color and hope in 

the scent of the purpled and orange sun or the 

sound of the dark blueberries growing in the 

humid air. The small spider, knitting the 

weighted silver strands on the underside 

of the kaleidoscoping light-dappled leaf,

things usually unseen.

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