Better By Nightfall

I've been looking around the apartment lately, watching the all colors fade to the taupe walls that were here from the beginning. (Perhaps the Jungian in me sees signs in all of this, but I dare not over-analyze it.) With each piece of color slowly stripped away, the old layer is revealed. There are holes that remain in corners where sheets of color stood, penetrating the old layer. And it's starting to look empty, starting to feel empty. Rooms that were full are becoming hallow. The hallowest of rooms is where we spend the least time now. The room that connects the apartment together is as empty as its existence. Things are starting to echo, lightly. Soon to increase in volume with each passing day.

I've found myself spending more time in my room, the only place that seems to thrive with color. It will be one of the last rooms to return to taupe. And when it does, it will be fast. All of it will disappear in one whole day instead of the progression most have done. The walls will be cleaned. The holes will be covered with oatmeal soap to hide the intrusions, but I'll know that they're still there and where they are. And I'll close this door one last time when the final bits of color are finally stored away, dragging my bags and my goodbyes.

I'll take one last glance at the place I called home for a year, just as I do every time I move. The shell of taupe. The walls, empty. The doors, locked. The keys, turned in. Walking away. The last goodbye.