Indigo is a darkness, insurmountable. Indigo is trying to love what you loved not a month ago, but the feeling isn't there. Indigo is trying to summon the will to care, but you can't. Indigo is the quiet suffering you find yourself enduring and for what. Indigo is wondering why. Indigo is yelling at God or the sky or anyone who cares and asking why this. Why me. Why now. Why. Indigo is becoming lost. Indigo is pushing away the plate today and every day. Indigo is trying to find your fix but nothing helps. Indigo is searching and wishing and begging and pleading for help. But none comes. Indigo is a pit. Indigo is making a decision. A bad one. Indigo is calling one person you love and saying you're sorry because you are. You are so so sorry. Indigo is the color the metal beams look so late at night. Indigo is climbing the railing to stand in the open air. Indigo is the color of the dark water churning below. Indigo is the cold, dirty beam you cling to. Indigo is the car that pulls over nearby. Indigo is when you let go.


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