(In)visible spectrum
Vermeil, the alcantara of the Togo sofa you're lying on, alone on this late Wednesday afternoon.
Indigo, the lotus petals whose vapors you inhaled in search of an imperceptible intoxication.
Green, the leaves of salvia divinorum that you chewed for a long time.
Golden, the honey you mixed with the lamiaceae to soften its unbearable bitterness.
The unkempt clothes of the man lying on your sofa, whom you contemplate from a nebulous distance.
Tangerine, the analog dream that accompanies your own lucid dream guided by the psychotropic plant, the unique timbre of Moog synthesizers carrying you through time to the dark leather of that other Togo sofa where, as a child, you would stay for hours, hypnotized by those strange sounds.
Roses, the peyote flowers you used to eat with the sibylline Isabelle, a sudden resurgence from a more recent past fogged with mescaline.
Black, those memories that sometimes haunt you but that you don't deny because they're an essential part of you.
Grey, the winter sky you glimpse behind your half-open eyelids as your mind slowly returns to your body and a kaleidoscope of indistinct faces and silhouettes floats before your eyes. The Stealth is there too, biding her time, lurking in the shadows of your delirium.
Saphir, her favorite lightweight jumpsuit.
Straw, her hair that you long to smell.
Cinnabar, her nails that you'd like to feel lacerating you.
Cerulean, her eyes where the pearl of darkness in your memory disintegrates, a drop of Indian ink diluted in a phantasmagorical ocean when you surrender yourself into her hands and her hold frees you.
Ruby, the blood that still pulses violently in your veins as the effect of the diviner's sage wears off, the blood you'd like her to shed, she whose name is that of a blade.
White, the light from the little lamp that you stare at as night falls, a little dazed, back here and now, an insipid synthesis of the countless shimmering nuances perceived through the prism of your hallucinated trance.
Flonflon text.
Photo by Jinklab.