R E S I L I E N C E:
Purple was the color you spilt of me. Purple was my essence, my words, my past, my present and the beginning of my beginnings. I was purple.
You were moved by purple, but never understood her true color. You carefully picked her up in the bucket that housed her body of paint and you drained it slowly to the cold,hard cement.
Purple couldn’t grow wings to fly so she fell hard to the ground in all that she was, but pride never evaded her because her color had never once left her after her fall. She was still the color purple.
There splattered thin on the rocky corners of the cement she lay in all her purple glory reminding herself of her color. “What kind of color needs to remind itself of their own hue?” she asked herself.
The familiar bucket that Purple had once so happily lived in, the one that kept her a safe and put together also lay scattered next to her on the ground.
The hands that drained purple from her happy home could be considered wasteful to misuse such a color as purple, but purple knew she was purple, and only purple shaped purple.
SO THERE ON THE GROUND SHE MADE HERSELF INTO ART & CALLED IT RESILIENCE. SHE CALLED HERSELF ART, RESILIENCE WAS HER ART.