I often take long walks in my small-town Louisiana neighborhood, inhaling the scent of the wisteria, the oleander, the crepe myrtle that froth along the verdant lawns, melodic colors accented by the thrumming, subdued harmonies of the aging, peeling hues painted on the houses.  The warm spring wind caresses my cheeks, bringing with it the taste of rain, tiny droplets shimmering in the heavy air.  I turn my face to the overcast sky, my eyes picking out the subtleties of the swirls of violet and indigo, touches of warm green in the deepest shadows, a faint tinge of pink in the light, flecks of gold limning the edges of cloud where the sun peeks through.  Gray is not a word in my vocabulary— I see too many intricacies to use such a crude and overly simplistic descriptor.

I breathe in these colors, these refractions of light and music that dance in my mind.  They bring me a sort of peace, easing the ache in my head, my body, my soul.  I feel the life around me, and it makes me smile, a faint but slowly re-illuminated memory of joy and desperately earned freedom.