My calendar is a rainbow. Each separate square coloured according to rules that even I barely understand.
I can’t explain how I know which specific shade to choose, which way to go, how I categorise each day. But there is always something. Something about the way the earth moves on a given day. The way the wind brushes against my cheek. The way food sits in my mouth, the way it tastes. All these things are ways that claim my choices.
I have no say in the colours I choose. They come to me unbidden, unlooked for and unrestrained, ready to paint my life like graffiti on my soul.
It is a gift, I hear, to live inside the rainbow. To be able to taste the tang of neon and run shades of teal through your toes.
But, when dressed in pearls and lace, you find the champagne you sip tastes and stains like midnight ink, it’s hard to find the joy.
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