They call it Purple.

A state of being suspended between two emotions; a clouded sky hung between two banners of earth.

A melancholy, fitful sleep punctuated by tossing and turning.

A storm, a raging inferno of savage slumbers tossed about on a frothing sea of overcast foam.

The haze that forms over a lake when the geese fly low over it and skim the darkness with their webbed feet, talons poking holes in the dawn.

A child’s Popsicle, dripping down over their hands to mingle with the sticky dirt and the ants; a dark, despondent color.

A large cloud, sitting on the shoulders of tomorrow, sighing under the weight of the heat and the fog…

…and the meetings and the media junkets and the parent-teacher conferences and the press conferences and the interviews and the resignations and the past and the present and the future and the one tiny rubber band ball you’ve been building in your desk since the age of six without ever letting society know how you truly want to let it go and pop and breathe and think and feel and be…

…and the feeling of aimlessness washing over a person when they first awaken, a cloak of sleep and dreams, before realizing that it can never, truly be.

Tomorrow, beckoning, the jaded daybreak restlessly writhing in the grip of society

The small dry chuckle emitted from a person desperate to conform to the hopes, fears and dreams of the future

The last breath of a very old person who has seen the tunnel of hope…

Alas, Purple.