The Yellow I Hold So Dear...

02 Jan, 2025

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

The Yellow light in front of me flickers, blinking in and out of existence.

Yellow.

Gray.

Yellow.

Gray.

My surroundings shift color, changing from the warm yellow that the traffic light provides to the cold, dark gray of the night.

The traffic light is simple. Red means stop. Green means go. Yellow, yellow means get ready, you cannot stay stopping, you cannot keep going. Wait. Wait for the next instructions to come. Stay for a while in this warm purgatory, lie in anticipation, in wait, but do not worry, the instructions will come to you soon.

The light in front of me was a blinking Yellow, never turning red, never turning green. What did that mean? Caution. You are at an intersection. “Look both sides and cross.” Those were the instructions it provided. So I looked left, and then right. Left. Right. Left. Right. I’ve been looking both sides for some time now. Has it been hours? Days? Weeks? Years? Under the cold, star-less night and the warmth of the Yellow glaring me down, I seemed to have lost all track of time. Time wasn’t stuck. I’m sure time was still moving forward, keeping itself going, ticking along with the periodic blinking of the Yellow light in front of me. Time wasn’t stuck, but perhaps it was I who was stuck in this idle. After all, time was just as cold as the night, it didn’t bother waiting for me. The Yellow, on the other hand, was warm. It was waiting for me, telling me to look both sides and cross. So I kept following the instructions. I knew what to do and I knew what came after. “Look both sides...” So I looked left, and I looked right. Left. Right. Left. Right. There was a strange comfort in knowing what to do and what had to be done after. I had to look both sides. There was warmth in something so definitive, something so repetitive. “...And cross.”, the Yellow instructed. Cross? Why am I so hesitant? Why have I been repeating only half of the instructions, never truly completing them? Looking, but never crossing?

Oh, I see.

There really was warmth in something so definitive, something so repetitive. If I looked one side, I knew I had to look the other next. But if I cross, what comes after? The instructions ended there. The comfort, the warmth, it all ended there. So I sat there, behind the cold steering wheel, under the cold night, looking left and right, over, and over, and over, and over again. It’s warm here. Warmer than the night around me. Warmer than the road ahead me.

I’m warm.

.

.

I look at my hands.

They’re not as pretty as I imagined them to be. They feel cold, colder than the night that surrounds me. They look... lonely. The hands I’ve been searching for lie ahead, on the other side of this intersection I am at. But will those hands be warmer than this Yellow? They must be, right? Otherwise, why are my hands still cold? Maybe I should cross. But then what? I’ve looked both sides, I know I can cross but then the intersection would disappear eventually as I drive onwards. The instructions would disappear. The Yellow would disappear. What would I do next? Just keep driving? Would I hope for another intersection with its blinking Yellow? Or would I be lost in the gray around me? The gray that has been trying its best to consume me? Or would I finally reach my destination? Finally reach the hands that would keep me warm?

I’m scared.

.

.

I can hear a car in the distance.

As I wait at this intersection, sometimes I can hear cars, driving to where they need to be, driving somewhere far away from me. I can hear the soft hum of their engines and the sound of their tires driving against the cold, hard road. The sounds louden, then fade away into the gray. They seem so sure of where they’re going. Why else would the sound fade away if they weren’t? Waiting under the warm Yellow, the noise is always coming from afar. It’s not loud, it’s not jarring. This noise from the cars is enough to remind me of their existence, but not enough to distract me from mine. Enough to show me I’m not alone, but not enough to help me feel less stranded.

A memory.

The Yellow in front of me turns into a harsh blur. A memory of when I was driving amongst the busy traffic, not yet stuck at an intersection, but pitifully clueless of the gray around me. The noise during this time always came from nearby. It was loud, it was jarring. This noise was enough to give me comfort, enough to give me a distraction, enough to give me a direction. Where did I have to go? Forward of course, where all the others were going. But was it really where I needed to be? My ears, my brain, congested with all that noise, couldn’t tell. So I kept driving, and driving, and driving, and driving along the road that promised me my destination. I seemed to have lost all sense of direction and the noise, it hurt.

Whether it’s nearby or afar, this wretched noise always hurt. When it was bustling, it distracted and when it was trickling, it distressed. The noise was so painfully loud when I was driving, and so painfully quiet when I was in wait. Only the slight buzzing of the traffic light, as the Yellow blinked gave me some comfort. But was comfort really what I should be holding onto when I lost both time and direction? I wished the noise, the congestion, the static in my head would stop.

It hurts.

.

.

Should I keep driving? Or should I keep waiting? The warmth in hesitation is too painfully sweet. Am I finally going to drive out of this noise? Or will this noise finally drive me insane? The cold in this idle is too painfully bitter. It’s going to be dark soon. I should drive out of this Yellow. A warmth much greater than this awaits. My destination, those warm hands await. Why can’t I press the pedal? I need to cross. Both sides are clear, I’ve confirmed that countless times, I’ve been confirming that for a long time now. So, cross. The Yellow stares at me. It gives me comfort, but has it ever made me content? No. Was repetition really comforting? Or was I dreadfully mistaken?

I feel sick.

.

.

Maybe I really was mistaken.

.

.

The Yellow I hold so dear, holds me dearer than I want it to. It holds me closer than I’d like it to. It holds me warmer than I need it to. I want to start moving, before the Yellow finally holds me hostage in its deceitful, comforting warmth. I have to start moving, before the gray consumes even this synthetic Yellow, this insincere warmth and leaves me shrouded in the endless dusk that’s soon to come.

I need to start moving.