The Colours of Anger by Lena Solomon

It’s always at this time of the year, when summer’s passage into winter starts. Everything changes when it gets cold and the day shortens. In an odd way, the force of gravity acquires that surreal scent and flavour of the attraction of the natural heavy matter towards whatever is in me that is immaterial. I figure it might be “cold induced intense magnetism” or “the trap of the soul by the cold and storms coming”. Not sure…What I am sure of is that it creates a sense of despair.

In October, when the cold begins descending upon the world, the clattering noise of my teeth, the messy blend of broken thoughts, unsettling feelings and sensations attack my brain in a mental cacophony. So loud, it releases just enough energy to keep me warm, my system's spontaneous protection from turning dead cold. Trying to make sense of that dirty mess of jumbled words, incomprehensible, fragmented thoughts spinning in maddening whirls, as if competing to win a Marathon in my head, becomes my torturous, inner struggle.

If I were to choose the paint to represent that emotion, I would mix abundant dark blue and black, into a dense, thick layer. Night colour, like the sign of “no way out of the dungeon of my mind”, with its circling thoughts, the desire, stronger than ever to be closer to the grass, tree roots, flower roots, vegetable roots, in between pebbles that cover the earth granules, closer to the mud when the rain floods gardens and fields, to the stones with which you pave your garden around your flower beds.

A sense of lost hope fills my chest when I breathe. I make the effort to inhale! Helplessness and the cold air put up a fierce fight for space in my lungs. A feeling of lose-lose takes up my living energy. Trapped in the dark, thick mixture of night colours, I try to inhale again. So hard that the air molecules run towards my nostrils, rushing and fighting each other to get in first, too impatient to wait in line.

Ah, how well I know it! The air-eating monster. That dark cloud that descends in the fall from the Universe, the invader of my brain- blood barrier. The gloomy mist that obstructs my breathing also masks the feeling of suffocation until it is almost too late, when there is not enough oxygen left in my lungs.

And then,

scared by my aggressive gasp for air, the little balls of invisible atmospheric vapours push each other, hurrying to enter the narrow dark airways of my nose. When I close my eyes I can see how they circle inside each one of my nasal cavities, the way the wine circles your mouth when you allow it to touch all your taste buds, before giving yourself the satisfaction of swallowing it. But the air only allows me now the satisfaction of being able to take in another sad breath. No real contentment, no serenity follows.

In October, when the cold descends upon the Northern part of the world, it clears the air of pleasant, melodious fragrances to make room for the smells of disaster,

and I drown

in the scent of lost identity, lost connection with my own hopes and beliefs. That inner, invisible living, immaterial creature that inhabited my brain and heart, wanders during such times so far from the feeding source that it starves to death. It leaves behind the putrid scent of lost hope emanating from the shards disintegrated from the inner creature, which I named “My-self”, which dropped out of my soul and died.

How limp it lies, scattered in front of my tired, sleepless eyes! Dead, rotten fruit, “My -self” now fallen from the tree in my heart, which I so dearly watered, pruned, trimmed and protected from diseases, pests and sins, all my life, or at least as long as I remember, sometimes at the cost of everything I held dear, before the cold set in, before the cold set in lately.

When I try to exhale, a salty liquid, (which I suppose not even God nor the devil knows how it got there), seems to be streaming out of my body, down my face. Quite unexpected. Yes, imagine not even all mighty God, can explain the strange ways in which my lungs (I suppose it must originate in my lungs, given its occurrence during a breathing phase) release that liquid when I exhale and which by now, I identify as “My- tears”. I assume it dripped through some connective vessels inside my body, into my throat and mouth, eventually reaching the little pores in my eyes. I suppose the exact route it followed

doesn’t really matter. It is certain that it flooded my mind while breathing. I imagine it originated in some inorganic space, a quantum vibration of intergalactic nothingness projected right into my heart and soul. And then one of the other inner organs transformed it into tears. Like Freyja’s, the war goddess in Klimt’s painting, mercilessly presiding over a bloody war. Strangely, her tears foretelling war are golden. I would paint them blood red in this story,

real war tears.

Annoyed by their undesired presence, I ask “My- tears”, what are they doing there? They reply unceremoniously: we are a tax to pay for feeling helpless and very, very sad. We were born of the dead remains of your lost identity, which fell out of your “self”, with its lost hopes and goals. Small at first, the size of a marble, and then we inflated, like the air inflates your mouth when you cannot say anything useful or essential to soothe the pain. We jumped right into the atmosphere, hoping that we could find sympathy coming out somewhere. Once, under some circumstances, we induced more compassion, but now, that seems a more selective reaction, depending on whose lungs, oh pardon us, soul, they originated

from. About some, no one gives a damn. In their loneliness, those souls sometimes use us to recharge.

At other times, the lungs may be unsuccessful in their endeavour and people can’t breathe, so they may try to stop breathing. Like you. Some are successful. It’s easy to exhale your last breath. Those witnessing such situations may use us for relief. Although salt, which we, your tears, carry in abundance, is not a good conductor, people found a way to transform it into an effective battery. Salt is a good preservative, so we ensure you don’t forget. But it is also a very effective cleanser, like a disinfectant for all kinds of ailments, such as despair. But you need patience, and people often give up too quickly.

Oh, but don’t let us digress. Where were we? Oh, because the air was infected…There was a terrible smell of death, and we needed to come out. Lots of us, enough to fill out a huge basin, the size of a small sea. We came up in huge cohorts to wash up the air. You see, exhaled CO2 would not have done it in gas form. It had to condense, become liquid and taste bitter. This way, the remaining living part, if there were any left, could breathe enough purified air to follow the coffins, from a distance of living….

Oh, my cursed memories. The stench of death when following the coffins in that heat was unforgiving. But worse was the mourning of the youths… all of them. Like many knives, it went right through my living body, alive only to contain the blows of those blades. The struggle with the ghosts of those that Life did not contain. Courage, compassion, respect. Now hollow words. I cannot help it but go for a drink. Twelve beers. 2x6 packs. Until the lungs and the mind become indistinguishable. I manage to stand. Through the window, the tree behind it stares at me. The leaves – hundreds of eyes. Judging. Ashamed I lower my gaze. I become a leaf. Easy to hide. But still, the ordeal of breathing. The leaf I became stands out now. Cannot hide. I wish I could paint it

dark, dark red, under a black layer.

I keep my eyes fixed on the nurse. Why does she look pale? She must be tired. I wonder how many times a week she works so late. I wonder if she could see my broken thoughts jump out of my skull, running like crazy, back and forth. Or perhaps heard the noise in my throat as I try helplessly to inhale? She is so young. Danny’s age. I wonder if she could tell what other tragedy may follow. I imagine bringing her peaches. Because Danny loved peaches. When he was little, we promised him to always get him barrels of peaches in the fall. We did so for 20 years, until …

The alcohol in my brain does not numb the pain. It actually makes it worse. We could have gone to buy him a peach orchard later in October. And then that terrible noise and that terrible silence. He would have thought it was a crazy idea to buy so many trees only because he loved peaches. Oh my god, why do I have to breathe again?

I did say god, didn’t I? My inebriated neurons scream now:

ARE YOU REALLY THE GOD?

Any god? fearless, cruel, loveless, meaningless, useless, where are you?

That rage that strangles me and makes me want to get up there or down there, wherever you may live, and kick you, many, many times, until I die,

as hard as I can, for all the pain you allow!

Yes, you, because you claim to be in charge, the lord, the saviour…

YOU LIAR!!!

What colour shall I paint this anger? Perhaps again, a few layers of blood red and black. But I doubt that will be enough….

Romanian-born Lena Solomon is a clinical psychologist and a neuropsychologist by profession, having practiced in 3 continents. She also holds a degree in general linguistics.  She is passionate about writing and music. She writes poetry, children's stories, plays, and short stories. Her literary work is inspired by the lives she touched, by the fantastic reality of dreams and by her perception of the complexity of the human condition, with its humorous and harsh aspects. “October” a poetry book and “ Ariya's Odyssey” a children’s book are two of her published works. She also published a children’s book of poetry. Some of her poems appeared in Of The Book Press, Verse Afire Poetry Magazine and recently Dark Winter Magazine has kindly accepted one of her poems and one of her stories ( May, 2026). She also presented at professional conferences and published in professional journals. She is a member of the Ontario Poetry Society and has recently received a prize in a competition for one of her poems.