"I feel things in hues,
and sometimes, I cry in blue."
Dear Diary,
Words don't always work for me.
Sometimes, when people ask me how I'm feeling,
I want to say "green" instead of "fine."
Because "fine" is too thin —
and "green" carries more of what I really mean.
A soft, leafy green — like fresh starts and the smell of rain-soaked earth.
Or maybe a dark forest green — the kind that hides secrets and moss-covered memories.
My heart doesn't always form sentences.
It spills color.
When I'm sad, it's not always gray.
Sometimes it's deep navy, like the ocean at night — vast, quiet, swallowing everything.
Sometimes it's lavender, not tragic, just tired. Soft. Achey in a slow-motion kind of way.
When I'm happy, I don't feel yellow —
I feel sun-drunk gold.
The kind of gold that dances on your skin during golden hour and makes everything feel like a movie.
Love, for me, is crimson.
Bold. Loud. Sacred.
Like ink bleeding onto parchment or a red balloon floating too high,
half joy, half fear of popping.
And when I miss someone…
that's when the colors blur.
It turns into watercolor blue —
the kind that drips gently but stains everything it touches.
I wonder sometimes if anyone else sees it too.
If their hearts splash like mine behind their ribs.
If their chest fills with hues that no one else notices.
If they cry in pastel.
Or dream in neon.
It's hard, you know — living in a world that wants you to explain yourself in clear black-and-white sentences
when your entire soul was painted with a rainbow brush.
But maybe this is my magic.
Maybe some of us weren't meant to be translated.
Maybe we were meant to be felt.
So, if you ever ask me how I'm doing and I say "teal with a touch of marigold,"
just smile and nod.
Because that might mean I'm healing.
Till tomorrow,
Wunor 🎨🌈