Staring at the Ficus Tree

She searches traces of old days, where hands hugging the pencil tight scribbling down words that haven't
been said, when said words were kept as if those words were locked by ancient Egyptians or when voices
danced in the air, being tangled, echoing one another, laughters going over each other, as feelings fly
around the room. The room was lemon yellow, burgundy, grass green, tints of voices, laughter, wind, that
sunlight would smear. She finds herself wrinkled and weak, sitting on her double size bed alone waiting
for a monster octopus to scare her from her Narnia closet, just staring at her beige wall room, nothing else
to see than her Ficus tree, hoping that it would light up with colors once again.