The serpent’s cousin always crops
up when my mood is red. When I am either a tad miffed or in the mood for a
little adventure …a little walk along life’s very steep edge. It tells me not
to take myself too seriously, life is short after all. It tells me that caution
is for the dull, for those that lack imagination. For those willing to watch
life from the sidelines as they take their cup of ketepa tea. It tells me that
revenge is like a glass of white wine; it goes down best when served cold. It
drinks like an Irish man, brawls like an irked lioness, walks like a peacock on
a runway.
The ‘symbolic’ one talks when my
mood is black. It is like a kiss in the dark from a stranger, discreet but not
in the least bit subtle. It talks a lot, and it is very opinionated and
forceful. The curious thing is that after the talking, I am left with more
questions than answers. It leaves me as confused as being caught up in the
middle of two sets of train tracks with trains on either side honking as they
pass by in great speed. It is not diplomatic, and it rears its head when I am
in most need for answers.
The chatty one shows up when my
mood is yellow. When I am annoyingly jovial and optimistic. It chats me up like
an old lady in a bus. Tells me tales of there and back again. It is like a warm
hug on winter’s night; it reminds me that I am not alone, that I have a lot
more contribution to offer to this world. It talks of dreams and fairytales, of
building castles in mid-air. Of flying parachutes over the savannah with a
banner tagged on it; ‘Dreams are possible,’ it says. It is like a wild horse
running on the beach; in love with life and what it has to offer.
The school principal cranks its
cane when my mood is blue. As blue as a bank. It yanks the parachute back to
the ground with a strict warning. It leads the wild horse back to its pen and
gives a cold eye to the old lady in the bus which serves to silence her
instantly. It is like Machiavelli; a realist at heart. It disdains dreamers and
loathes idealists. They both border the paradigm of insanity, it says. It has
pride of the arrogant kind. It is confident in what it stands for. It is a bully;
it boos everyone who refuses to conform to its principles and ideologies.
Red, black, yellow and blue.
There are noises in my head. They all talk to me, but only one speaks. It is a
voice. The one that is too beautiful to be confined to a single color, the one
too complex to be a hue of anything ordinary, the one too simple to need verbal
interpretation. It speaks to the heart, this voice. It speaks the truth. It
tells me that I am royally purple, calmly blue, vibrantly yellow, intensely
red, authentically brown… It tells me that there is only one me, and that’s the
best that I can be.
