Photo by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash

Chromatic Progressional Depression: A World Without Colors

It disappeared slowly, the colors. They melted and blended into one another. The first one to go was red; she was fiery and youthful, spitting anger in every word she spoke. Her father bought her dolls as compensation for the five years he’d gone missing from her life, and she spit on them too. Then went orange and yellow; hand in hand- like lovers on a sun casted summer beach, somewhere in the vacations she could never afford. Orange was all of the things her mother held sacred; tiger spotted golden petals in the physical manifestation that excluded her in every scenario.

And yellow — yellow was the color of pus oozing from her knees each time she fell behind and nobody remembered she was even there to begin with. With her dear life, she held onto green. She grasped green tightly to her chest, trying to shield it with her entire might; she needed green — Green was the bamboo leaves she wrapped around sweet rice cakes, the color of patience, and prickling tenderness from grass gardens and pine trees. Green was Christmas morning without ribbons, because she understood the value of a year well spent was to be gratefully green; despite red being gone. But after years and years of pouring every drop from her own cup, and still being met with a wagging finger in her face; green went too. And somewhere in between teal and navy, purple slipped out the door; mysterious as she’d always been, she’d gone quietly with a map in her hands.

When all that was left was bitter blue, she crossed her arms and closed the gates to the world; because loneliness was a vulnerability she would never let show. She was frozen in indigo and kissed her own wounds until her lips bruised and the sound of her name made her jump in her own skin. Inside the safety of her walls, she drowned out sunlight with curtains and sleep. And when she woke at dusk, nobody could separate her from the shadows on her walls. So she became the night; casting monochromatic essence with her every touch. Her entire world became hues of grey and dust. She could no longer hear the morning sun knocking on her window, or see the evening sunset merging with the horizon to bid her a daily farewell.

Twinkling star lights, were the only greetings she received each night after she rose from her daily slumber; though her entire existence was but a slumber now. And she stared into the eyes of Sirius and Polaris, sparkling brazenly even in nothing but black and white.

In these stars she felt something stirring within herself; a divine truth that mocked her frozen world — The bitterness and anger were still lingering in her depths, and with this meant — blue and red were in the midst. Red in her bloodstream, and blue in her veins. Green were her bruises, healing themselves into a faded yellow blush. Fighting orange with a guise of monochromality was like the sun closing her eyes and believing she was the moon—

In seconds, her walls had crumbled; she could not reject such a fact. She had closed her eyes and covered her ears; but each morning the earth still spun. And each evening, the stars still glowed; and she was but a spec of universe dust. Colorful and light, even in her believed loss of chromatics. She felt magic in the warmth of the sun’s fingertips on her cheeks, and how delicate the beating heart in her chest continued, despite her cowardice to face her losses without running away into a facade of her own making. She takes the steps out into the world, and the world takes her into its embrace. And she marvels at the beauty of the colors not only in her recovery of them; but in her grey toned, black and white cycle of losing them as well. 

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