In green spaces I inspire...

You wanted to read some ideas with greenish connections, and moss has covered that request after two quiescent winters. Green enough for me now.

Green pens are worst when writing, as if my thoughts were not meant to be written in green. I tried it out today but the ink was constantly stuck in the rollerball; there was some kind of density in my thoughts that was far from being fluid, like the conversations I hold with my mother while I look at her troubled olive eyes. Because of her, in my life not only envy, but also happiness, rage, sadness, wisdom and care are colour green.

From that shade I've tried to escape so many times, making my way to brighter arboreal undertones that are sometimes rather close from home and others, thankfully, not. There I started a kingdom with crowns not made of gold, and discovered secret refuges where green foliage complemented my bleeding anger, which was finally neutralised in postwar calm. Peace is not white but green. 

Vibrant clorophile also tints my future plans and ambitions, rainforests and emerald isles, which are an echo of that times when I wished to be a naturalist surrounded by wildlife; I guess I still dream of it... and now the ink is stuck again. Trying to write in green might not be a good option, Mr. Brick... Green is the undone, the immature ideas, the ever-growing hopes that have rooted deeply in my soil.

...Then thoughts in black expire.

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