What Color is your Rainbow? Mine is Black.

The world is a vampire, sent to drain

Secret destroyers, hold you up to the flames

And what do I get, for my pain?

Betrayed desires, and a piece of the game

(Smashing Pumpkins)

My new manicure. Toes painted black. My roommate jokes that they are black like my soul. I find it lovely. But my toes are slathered in a color that is considered hot at the moment. Funny how things spin around. My black, the color of angst. My little bit of punk rock rebellion is no longer really a rebellion. It is like hearing The Ramones "Gabba Gabba Hey" during a cell phone commercial. Skulls lose their edge, and suddenly pink seems more subversive.

But I find that idea of my black soul has me contemplating my angst. Following me into adulthood. I assumed that upon reaching my 30s I would no longer feel sad in a non-explainable melancholy sort of way. Of course I knew that there would be sadness, but I assumed that it would be grown up, explainable, curable and/or preventable sadness. Something to be dealt with and handled in a mature fashion. But securely in my 30s, I still find myself standing on the edge of the shore, water kissing my toes, beckoning me to slid under the cool waters and float listlessly along. How often I give into this moment. Perhaps that is the true sign of adulthood, when you can resist the pull of angst. When you reject that selfish moment, pulling yourself out of bed to deal with the world.