The whole world is a massive blend of colours, from all four corners of the imagination. No matter where you go, you'll always meet with colour. You can see it from the first break of light in the morning, to the setting velvet of night.
Everyone is tainted. Sometimes, their skin burns and crackles a flaming red- they're the angry people. Meanwhile, others glow yellow and twinkle as they talk- the happy people. You see, people are colours. Their feelings are colours, their bodies are colours, their world is colours. You can't exist without them.
I exist.
You might be unfortunate enough to come across someone such as myself. People like me have been drained of the colour we used to radiate. It has been leaked through tears. It was supposed to be engraved into the darkest depths of our souls, now stolen of the shades that once sloshed around inside us. Bright purples, soothing blues, natural greens, all have faded from the blush of our cheeks. We're the ink tattooed onto the world. We have no colour.
Our smiles are transparent; our irises are void.
People like me don't see the point in being vibrant. Why live in a world that painted with glamorous colour? People like me, we don't fit in. We're the ghosts of people who were one with colour. We're the invalids locked behind grey bars.
No longer. I don't want to be a person, stuck within the dimness of this disease. I want to be powdered down with the blues of sorrows, the greens of jealousy, and the pinks of love.
Yet there has never been any form of feeling in my stomach, nor the tummies of anybody of my kind. Through all the breezy summers, freezing winters, dead autumns, we bubble away in a container of our own thoughts. Gradually, we clear ourselves of the doubt that we know we're going to face. We are our own colours. Those who coat themselves in every streak of the rainbow can't do this, there's no blank canvas to start sketching on. It's funny how tables turn. Mr Red, Mr Yellow, the dark is coming to get you.
People only take on colours when they are oblivious to the cruelties in this world. They bob along in life, their heads filled with all the colours they drew on their skulls.
They will never understand. Of course they won't. People with colour, people with emotion, people without a mind, they're the majority who are all special in their own ways. Me? I'm the opposite. I'm the anomaly, the android with the faulty wiring.
They call people like me, 'sick'. They say our perception is so dark that it's impossible for us to ever see anything. That makes us 'special'. We're the ones who observed the species' dying pigmentation, see it for what it is. You would notice us if you ever came near enough. You'd notice a subtle glance in your direction as we try to work out the puzzle of your colours. That's when people turn white.
Power never lies in the minority, especially when the minority is like ours. People are power. I am one person; I am powerless. I have deluded myself many times with the idea of other sick humans marching beside me, but they're just as powerless as me. We're all alike, we all look the same, and we don't have the colour of power on our skin. We're a flat line. We simply dream up cures for our illness, without bleaching our bones some ditsy colour. We don't even try, we're kept awake with the blackness of what can go wrong.
Perhaps if I was ever given colour, I'd scrub away the dye in an instant. Perhaps I'd rub my skin raw until it screams. Perhaps I don't want to get better.
I will never be tainted red.
I will never be painted yellow.
I will always be colourless.
~ @hawkholmes
Story taken from that account so follow, read, vote ♥ yasss *: kissy kiss
