Purple Prognosis

What you call living life

is barely a skewed perspective

of existing;

building walls of existence

as long as they serve —

functional, convenient,

until habit hardens into habitat,

and memory mistakes itself

for meaning.

We tint our truths with comfort,

blur the edges of what cuts too deep,

call the blur beauty,

and the haze hope.

But purple doesn’t exist.

What you call purple is fiction:

a clever camouflage for myopia,

for the unseen, the untold,

for truths that rot in the unversed.

It is the color of denial,

the bruise light leaves behind,

a mirage wearing grief as grace.

Purple is an optical illusion.

So is believing you are conspicuous enough

for purpose.