Just playing safe. The picture is not mine. It's Joel Mahilum's. The literary piece below is mine, though.
White sheets. White flowers. White souls.
They say white is the absence of color. As she lay on those white, clean, unstained sheets, she feels the world crumble on her. Maybe that is what the white is. The absence of color. Of life.
Of a soul.
Tears stream out of the blue, but no one is there to see. They're silent and unnoticed streams, but it's a place no one would want to bathe in and enjoy. Falling from the dark caverns of her empty, dry soul.
A butterfly flutters by, coming in the room along with the moonlight seeping through the open capiz windows. She turns away from her misery, cold, blank eyes staring, pinning the butterfly on the sheets.
Things like that are useless. Like flightless butterflies.
She turns her head away from the butterfly, but her eyes are attracted to the blue. It's the only color in the seemingly