Desperate Cry for Help 038

The colours are all sitting there on the table, in their bottles and flasks, and glass tubes and beakers.

Contained.
Controlled.
Defined.

There seems to be order in chaos.

Arranged.
Displayed.
Refined.

But I wonder if maybe the potions feel contained.

The colorful liquid trapped in a prison of form.

I want to walk up and smash all the glass, to free the color.

Mad splashes and splats of red, and green, let loose to fly through the air, to adorn the walls.

Someone mixed up these chemicals. Got them to be pure colors of beauty and delight. And then shaped them in glass for their own purposes.

But I don't believe in the organization. It's pre-determined. Sterile. Man made.

I think all things should flow naturally.

We must be free.

I feel a sudden urge to empty a glass bottle of coca-cola into my throat, and feel the sugary goodness become part of me.