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A mix between black and blue,
Somewhere between depression, sadness and happiness.
A longing for the past,
The color of the man that never lost his inner child
But is stuck in a conformed world.
And carries with it a taste
Not dissimilar from a rotten blackberry.
One that leaves a bad aftertaste in your mouth
That cannot simply be washed down.
It reeks of all the scents that just don't smell the same.
Of ice cold milk and warm, freshly baked cake
On a cold, rainy winter day.
Nostalgia is the playground.
It's the playset and the swing that you enjoyed so much,
The one that you might now pass on the way to work or school,
The sound of children playing tag
And carelessly enjoying life, worryfree.
It's the sound of me and what I used to be
It never fails to evoke a tear or two,
And at the same time a chuckle and small smile.