Azure Blues

I love BLUE.
Always have.
‘BLUE’.
Blue;  Reminds me of home.

Azure blue reflections painted my childhood’s oceans.   Oceans that glimmer with Dad’s hue.  Just like my eyes.  ‘Blue’, the name everyone had taken me for and my eyes.

I loved to hear “Blue”,  spill  from Dad’s deliberate words.  I’d ride waves of pride, as my Dad’s disguised compliments washed over me . Whenever he marvelled at the azure coast in my eyes, from behind his own.  I’d swell with warm salted tears.  Imagining them melting the glass between us.  I loved it.   When Dad, called me- ‘Blue’.

‘Blue’.  One truth, my eyes- could not help, but leak.

Once  Dad accidentally remembered, aloud.  It was towards -the end.  This – A tidal rarity.  Dad’s waves, always broke effortlessly  in the distant sea.  Just off the coast of sight.  And mind.

“When you were a little girl…”    He began washing away.

“You had the most beautiful  blue eyes.  It broke my heart.”

I never asked Dad why my BLUE eyes broke his heart?-  So.

Probably.  My Dad  was more like me.  More like the endless oceans, I carried beneath my eyes.  More than I ever realised.

It’s hard to differentiate colours, from their painters.  Beautiful and vast;  People are oceans, unmapped. Haunted by depths,  beneath surfaces that bleed illusions.  Depths too dark, to explore their colours.  No matter how ‘Blue’.

Rarely.  Did Dad’s  yesterday wash ashore.  Never.  Did he explore the erosions carved by currents- past.  Instead.  Dad  leaned hard with pride against the winds and swells of time.   He plotted his dreams.  He chartered their course, guided by a horizon, he coloured, dripping with success.

Visions around us breath the colours, that our dreams paint.  Life colours us with yesterday.  Only for tomorrow to introduce new rainbows of colours, under new skies.  Colours paint what their artists dream to see. Dreams, dripping colours adorned with reflections.  Envious emeralds, clashing against sapphire rocks.   Diamonds sparkling clarity,  almost as beautiful, as the people they buy. Just as transparent, as I was ‘Blue’.  Back when I swam the undertow of jealousy, that mirages bleed.

Dad spoke with calm fluidity that day.  Blue currents of Dad, ran through me. I  loved it when Dad mentioned me. I’d drink his voice, with a thirst  for the ocean.  Hoping, I’d still exist. Even – If  Dad .  Did not.

“You were the easiest kid. Never asked for anything.   Only cried, when we’d take you from the water..”

Later, my ocean would become anywhere I could disappear.  Anywhere, I could dive beneath. Surfaces.  Hiding in the seas of yesterday. Still refusing to get out.

Someone once told me, that I was mistaken about- my  Blue.  “The water”, was not  blue. Not the Blue- I ‘d treasured for the vision of myself, I could not yet reflect.   “Actually”, he spilled.  “The ocean, is clear .It only reflects the colours of its sky.  Above.”.  The ocean’s azured surfaces, that mirrored me with opaque servitude. Were Clear.

I hated this man, stealing my colour.  Everything  I had come to see and believe. Never matched, the colours- that people and pictures-  bleed out.  Even  I,could not bring myself to leak the colours I painted.

‘BLUE’, always rippled in me, A tide of relief.  A current that drowned my fears in salted waters.  Blue covered corners far deeper than the dark crevices, of my mind.  I breathed beneath the Blue’s surface.  I plunged through secrets that stained my thoughts.  I dripped – ‘Blue’.   I bled – ‘Blue’.  What could be more ‘BLUE’, than that?   Drained of myself. It scared me to think my skies might only be as bright, or ‘Blue’ as I was.   Back then.

Back when I was young enough, to mistake the pictures I see.  For creators, bleeding their own colours.   Until,  tides of time paint rainbows of reflections. Rainbows re-shading the colours, that paint our eyes.

Reflections are created by changes in directions of  light.  The light in which we see things.  From the angles our position, affords us.  The angle of incidence, equals the angle of reflection.  The spectrum of light that reflects our colours.  It changes in the light of our reflections.  Just as we do.    How much we gloss their sheen?  How much, we inhibit their depths? These strokes paint our minds. Until the end of a life’s masterpiece.

People never call me BLUE, anymore.  I haven’t felt like ‘Blue’, for years.  Not since the overcast of youth, hazed the reflections above me.  The supposedly clear,  ‘Blue’ , of that ocean….  Almost as vast as Dad.  The blue, he taught me to swim with. Never fighting yesterday’s currents.  Never looking back for pictures, our minds hadn’t,  the colours  to paint.   Dad’s dreams still shimmer.  They dance over the colours, that still paint my eyes an azure blue.   Same as that ocean, that waters me –  Still.  Just like-  back then.

Back when Dad was here to rock me, after the storms have rolled in.  After the waves have crashed beneath my skies. Those azure blues.  They shine bright as my eyes.  Their tide pulls through me, and pulls me through.  Just like the currents -of Dad.    ]

Maybe.  That’s the reason.

I love BLUE.
Always have.
‘Blue’.
Blue; Reminds me of home.