‘Between the Black and White’: A significant

“Between the Black and the White” explores completely different moods and emotions in each day life. It’s organized into completely different keys that set the tone for every particular piece. It tries to seize the microscopic tales of life and zoom in to look at each element.

It’s late afternoon. We’re sitting on a rainbow-striped picnic blanket on the Oval, blasting Uchis’ gentle R&B. The charcuterie board with spicy salami, cheese, and pretzels. The hummus-flavored birthday card dipped in tomato sauce, the 2 cans of Pringles, the field of nicely-decorated cupcakes, the plates of Ritz and Cheez-It crackers all laid out. My good friend cuts open the pepino melon, spilling out yellowish liquid. The shadows of dashing butterflies cross us, their delicate wings fluttering in a flurry of colours, hurriedly chasing after some invisible treasures within the air. Following their trajectory into the sky, my gaze is caught by the clouds, splayed out in grotesque shapes.

Not like the rain, the clouds in California are razor-sharp, full with objective and path. They resemble Jupiter’s bands of swordlight, defending the serene azure sky painted a shimmering emerald. Amid the fragmented daylight, the smaller clouds splinter aside, dodging the fragile beams that dance all the best way all the way down to the earth. The larger, extra stressed clouds fill the sky with murmurs. Regardless of the clouds’ effort to shroud me from the daylight, the solar’s heat rays gently scratch my face, tenderly touching my wounds of their bittersweet caress. I really feel a tingling ache.

It’s virtually nightfall, and the solar gracefully descends, tracing a flawless arc. Every blade of grass is meticulously groomed, untainted by even a speck of mud. For me, all of it feels too formal. Bathed within the radiant daylight, there isn’t any room for even a touch of haze. The readability of the solar dissipates all that’s dreadful and ambiguous. The palm timber solid their shadows, elevating a glass to the diligence of the daylight. At this second, I really feel that I may entrust the whole lot of my physique and soul to the solar, carefree embrace. I favor sincerity over meticulousness, order over tyranny, eternity over immortality. The orange daylight cascades in waves upon the earth. I yearn to delicately reduce the picture out with lace scissors, fragment by fragment, to protect this second within the depths of my reminiscence.

Uninterested in the sunshine, I look down, looking for solace within the shadows that glint throughout the bottom. There, beneath the radiant solar, our shadows frolic and play. They leap and twirl, chasing fleeting happiness; they glide via the golden tapestry of daylight, unhindered by doubt or concern, their laughter echoing via the air like a symphony of freedom, whereas we stay rooted in our longing.

My associates’ laughter brings me again to the current. I take an ice cream from the picnic basket. I like to make use of a spoon to pile the ice cream into little snowmen, in my absence of thoughts, scooping it rigorously, licking the white sweetness with my tongue little by little; desirous to heat it, solely to soften it with my heat. Oh, ice cream, cussed like a toddler, enjoying a whimsical sport of hide-and-seek, eternally eluding our grasp. Even coldness returns to vitality when it’s consumed.

As I lay down on the picnic blanket, I really feel it — the persistence of the setting solar combined with the remaining touches by the lingering morning dew, as if guiding me in the direction of a chilly, brilliant tomorrow.


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