Colette Nowa

In advance, sorry, some parts are supposed to be in italics for Colette's thoughts - but it didn't copy over :c

Chapter I: Decisions Must Be Made

From love to war, all things behave naturally. The gift of love secretly resembles a desire for power. Theoretical or physical, the bittersweetness of a triumph captures a desirable advancement, a similar feeling to finding true love. Virtue or vice, only time reveals the difference between these fleeting and enduring experiences. The pleasure from power becomes as temporary as its conquests, while the growth of love is eternal.

Romance does not exist, thought the student, Colette Nowa, who strolled alone in the suburban park. It was 11:55 in the afternoon. The heat distributed waves of exhaustion, and the bubbled clouds from the factory pressed onto the swollen trees. Where were the butterflies? Where was the moment of simple happiness? Did it exist?

Under the hot sun, Colette seemed at ease. Although, something had been stolen from her. She had fallen for another trick, another dead-end. With the pond's water, she searched for a satiable fulfillment, while noting the green and silver ducks afloat. The benches invited her to sit down and think. Yet, nothing came to mind. All was silent.

The sun shone onto the water with ripples of sparkling light like stars, if only stars were visible during the day. A pretty sight, indeed. Colette agreed to its beauty. A curved oval of the sun reflected onto the glistening water. Each wrinkle was brushed with the wind, smoothing the thinness of the pond.

Adding more pressure to her own focus, she attempted to understand why she was sitting there, alone on a bench, questioning her own existence. The questioning prolonged as she reached a brief moment of peace. Her eyes ached from the brightness of the light.

The reflection of the sun turned black, which Colette adored. Some have deemed the color black as evil, a diversion from life, isolated from every shade of yellow, red, and blue. Colette, however, reached a peculiar calmness within this absence of color.

Interpreting the black and white, Colette mirrored these colors as a reflection of life and death, polar opposites, an argument in the universe. No one cared for the gray, the details of the masterpiece, the in-between, only for the harsh, prominent colors, the masterpiece itself. She thought, questioning the picture.

The white had swum inside the black, together as one, two partners, in the end, a yin yang, Colette's yin yang. Fear of trust overcame Colette. All emotions of what was right and wrong were within her, a fragile point of chance. Her eyes were then burning. She did not twitch.

In her own stance, she felt tall, interpreting that nullity, the physics of creation. The white, the color of all, needed the black, the absence of all colors, for pure darkness was just a theory that dismissed the shedding of light.

Ten minutes have passed. The white and black and all the shimmering lights of the sun, the source of all, became pink, a hot neon pink. Colette was tearing up as the wind bustled around the lake, letting the ducks disappear into the abyss beyond the dark lines of the trees.

"What am I doing here? I need to go home." Colette muttered to herself.

She doubted herself, shoving her thoughts down the grave of her subconscious. The forgetful young woman continued in her thoughts.

Atypical and typical at the age of twenty, a feeling of loneliness encompassed her. Colette's former boyfriend, Peter Reed, had purged her, encouraging his and her wrongdoings with excessive passivity. Colette understood that she was a puppet, dementing what she had believed was true. Apathy had surpassed affection. She accepted her own torments and spews while forgiving those of what had become. Friends no longer became friends but familiar strangers. They weren't much different from herself.