A Stroll Down Amnesia Lane

I am standing in a room, that is as blank as a new canvas, with my breathing as the first lick of paint.
The colour from my lungs is coming at steady pace until my newly found canvas starts to melt, dripping slow and smooth on to the floor; the wooden boards are sprouting grass, green and untouched by the human hand.

I have no recollection of this place; it may have seeped its way in from a film or painting, either way it has become main focus of the eye of my open mind. The image is so strong, like it has been inexistence along with my first films as a child; like the drops of rain falling in to the cracks in wood, never moving just soaked up and present in the never closing flood gates.

My attention has now been diverted to a figure in the background of my ever so present memory, a small child; a girl as slight and pale as a snow drop in spring. She dances with such poise amongst the red roses beneath her bare feet, landing ever so lightly brushing each petal as the gravity takes its toll.

Moving through the field of scarlet, the light breeze of spring running through her hair like fingers. Twisting it this way and that. But so engrossed in the texture so smooth in that gust of air, she trips over a forgotten basket. As she lands with a thud, her grace has gone, the crimson of the rose petals turns to liquid fire in her mind.

She stares silently at the watering can in which her head has just been, in her hands smudges of red begin to appear as they drip from her colourless forehead. The sky of spring turns dark and the girl’s face starts to fade and the walls of my blank canvas appear once more but this time colourful, yet gloomy.