HOME | DD

Description
Even though it is said that the human eye can see about 16.8 million different colors, we're all pretty much color blind in the end.

Today, I am blue, and you are red; today the fear begins again.
The sky is a milky white and your eyes are an empty grey, but you somehow still manage a smile: this is the first thing I notice. The second is that your shoes are untied, then that your gaze seems unfocused, then that your hair is a disaster, then that your voice sounds like rain – and I hate rain.
You catch my stare.
I turn away because I am afraid.
You are uncertainty and unpredictability, and for this, I hate you; the unexpected is a disease to my mind. You make me stumble and fall and vomit in confusion because I don't know how to feel and I can't stand it. Control is my obsession.
But you are also curiosity and maybe even some kind of messed up beauty, and I think I might be okay with that much.

Today I am indigo; today you are my vertigo.
I can't pull myself together anymore; I've become me and you and me. If I were blue and you were red, I'd be a thousand shades of indigo. I haven't spoken in days and my throat is aching. I keep losing my rhythm and losing my mind, back and forth and over and over; it just never ends. Night has fallen now, and I am tossing and turning like a restless ocean. I finally open my eyes again, and I whisper to you:
"Do you think kaleidoscopes are schizophrenic?"
But you don't answer because you aren't there at all; it isn't really winter because I can't stop the fall.

Today, I am amber like glowing resin; I am a bug in a glorious prison.
Taking your hand is almost easy if I just pretend you're not you and I'm not me and we're both anywhere but here. I still haven't spoken a word to you yet, but somehow you understand everything I've said – I'm not sure if I like that.
You sit beside me. I can feel the breath rushing out of the day as the world grows darker and darker around us. I am quiet and still, counting the stars as they slowly step into the sky.
"You don't like talking much, do you?" you finally say, tracing lines across my palm with your fingers.
I shiver and shake my head.
"You'd rather listen, then, I guess."
I don't respond.
"But I'd rather listen to you."
I am stubbornly silent.
"Say something."
I shake my head.
"Please?"
My mind aches. I shake my head again and look away.
"Please?"
"No."
Your smile is heartbreaking, so I give you my own miserable attempt in return.

Today, I am purple like a sunset fading out; I could never understand what beauty was about.
Days have passed and your patience is wearing thin. I cannot tell you who or what or why I am. I cannot tell you that I am constantly afraid of both having you and losing you. I cannot speak to you, because I trust your voice more than I trust my own. This is a dangerous place to be, and there is no escape.
I'm sorry.
But you refuse to give up just yet.
You skip a rock on the river, then sit down on its edge, beckoning me to join you. I hesitate.
"You're afraid of water." It's not a question. You take my hand in yours and together, we walk.
"You need to tell me these things, you know. Actually talk to me," you say softly.
"I can't," I whisper, biting my lip.
"I think you can."
I shake my head.
"I think you can try." You glance over at me, studying my face. "Can't you?"
"Maybe."
"What's your favorite color?"
I blink, confused.
"Well, what is it?"
"Why?"
"Because."
"White."
"White? Why?"
"Why not?"
You give me a very gentle glare, and I fake a smile.
"It's nothing and everything at the same time – a disease and a cure in itself."
You consider this, then smile and nod, satisfied with this little piece of me that you can grasp. I can feel bile rising in my throat.

Today, I am green like a tossing sea; I know not if I will ever be free.
The more I am with you, the more ill I feel. But nonetheless, you insist on being the cure for the sickness you've yet to discover.
"It's your turn," you tell me.
"What?"
"Ask me something."
"Why?"
"Yesterday, I asked your favorite color. Now it's your turn."
After a long pause, I whisper, "What do you think it would be like to live in black and white?"
"Boring. You?"
"Bipolar. Borderline."
You laugh. I don't.
"What's your favorite color?" I ask.
"All of them."
"All of them?"
"Yes, all of them."
"You can't like all of them."
"Says who?"
"You can't."
"Why not?"
"Because rainbows are like nature's Dissociative Identity Disorder. Or something." I watch your face carefully.
"What is it with you?"
"What?"
"You and all these disorders?"
"Does it bother you?"
"A bit."
"It's nothing. Just a hobby," I answer passively, then let go of your hand and leave you standing alone.

Today, I am ivory like the midwinter sky; today, there is no reason why.
Something has changed. I think it's me, but then again, it's always me because I'm never me - I'm never constant.
You don't take my hand anymore. You don't say my name, either, but I guess that's because you never even knew it from the start.
"Can I ask you something?" you say softly.
I do not respond.
"Can I?"
"You always do."
You hesitate, then go ahead. "Who are you?"
I shudder.
"You need to tell me who you are. I don't know."
I breathe deeply and stare at my feet. "I am…" I pause, fighting back either tears or vomit or both. "I am an empty trash bag in a recycling bin. A story unwritten by a writer unwilling." I can feel you watching me as I begin to tremble. "Melting snow and cold coffee and silver shadows and manic-depression. The hallucinations on the wall while a dreamer sleeps, a winter clock that is always one hour behind, a restless mind at 2:41am. A piece of broken glass shattered into a million different colors that no one even notices until someone steps on it and they begin to bleed a rainbow of red." I can't breathe now; I feel as if my lungs are caving in.
"You are not."
"That, too."
"What?"
"I am uncertainty and I am just – and I just hate uncertainty." I am sobbing now and I am ashamed. I run.

Today, I am silver like freshfallen snow; today is the day I let it all go.
I'm only making this harder; you're giving up hope and so am I. You've stopped trying to comprehend me, and so have I. I wish it were different, I wish I could breathe and laugh and cry and know that I'm alive. I wish I could explain, but it's too late. You wouldn't understand, and that terrifies me. Or maybe it's the possibility that you would understand that is most frightening.
You sit beside me in the branches of the tallest tree we can find out here in the winter darkness. I look at you, and you look at me – none of this was meant to be.
You shift uncomfortably, then touch my hand. I pull away.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I just really hate the snow."
"What? Why?"
"It isn't beautiful."
"What are you-"
"It just can't be beautiful. It's made of sorrow, it's made of rain."
"So are you."
"Exactly."

Today, I am black, and you are white; our shades of grey never came out right.

Description
Even though it is said that the human eye can see about 16.8 million different colors, we're all pretty much color blind in the end.

Today, I am blue, and you are red; today the fear begins again.
The sky is a milky white and your eyes are an empty grey, but you somehow still manage a smile: this is the first thing I notice. The second is that your shoes are untied, then that your gaze seems unfocused, then that your hair is a disaster, then that your voice sounds like rain – and I hate rain.
You catch my stare.
I turn away because I am afraid.
You are uncertainty and unpredictability, and for this, I hate you; the unexpected is a disease to my mind. You make me stumble and fall and vomit in confusion because I don't know how to feel and I can't stand it. Control is my obsession.
But you are also curiosity and maybe even some kind of messed up beauty, and I think I might be okay with that much.

Today I am indigo; today you are my vertigo.
I can't pull myself together anymore; I've become me and you and me. If I were blue and you were red, I'd be a thousand shades of indigo. I haven't spoken in days and my throat is aching. I keep losing my rhythm and losing my mind, back and forth and over and over; it just never ends. Night has fallen now, and I am tossing and turning like a restless ocean. I finally open my eyes again, and I whisper to you:
"Do you think kaleidoscopes are schizophrenic?"
But you don't answer because you aren't there at all; it isn't really winter because I can't stop the fall.

Today, I am amber like glowing resin; I am a bug in a glorious prison.
Taking your hand is almost easy if I just pretend you're not you and I'm not me and we're both anywhere but here. I still haven't spoken a word to you yet, but somehow you understand everything I've said – I'm not sure if I like that.
You sit beside me. I can feel the breath rushing out of the day as the world grows darker and darker around us. I am quiet and still, counting the stars as they slowly step into the sky.
"You don't like talking much, do you?" you finally say, tracing lines across my palm with your fingers.
I shiver and shake my head.
"You'd rather listen, then, I guess."
I don't respond.
"But I'd rather listen to you."
I am stubbornly silent.
"Say something."
I shake my head.
"Please?"
My mind aches. I shake my head again and look away.
"Please?"
"No."
Your smile is heartbreaking, so I give you my own miserable attempt in return.

Today, I am purple like a sunset fading out; I could never understand what beauty was about.
Days have passed and your patience is wearing thin. I cannot tell you who or what or why I am. I cannot tell you that I am constantly afraid of both having you and losing you. I cannot speak to you, because I trust your voice more than I trust my own. This is a dangerous place to be, and there is no escape.
I'm sorry.
But you refuse to give up just yet.
You skip a rock on the river, then sit down on its edge, beckoning me to join you. I hesitate.
"You're afraid of water." It's not a question. You take my hand in yours and together, we walk.
"You need to tell me these things, you know. Actually talk to me," you say softly.
"I can't," I whisper, biting my lip.
"I think you can."
I shake my head.
"I think you can try." You glance over at me, studying my face. "Can't you?"
"Maybe."
"What's your favorite color?"
I blink, confused.
"Well, what is it?"
"Why?"
"Because."
"White."
"White? Why?"
"Why not?"
You give me a very gentle glare, and I fake a smile.
"It's nothing and everything at the same time – a disease and a cure in itself."
You consider this, then smile and nod, satisfied with this little piece of me that you can grasp. I can feel bile rising in my throat.

Today, I am green like a tossing sea; I know not if I will ever be free.
The more I am with you, the more ill I feel. But nonetheless, you insist on being the cure for the sickness you've yet to discover.
"It's your turn," you tell me.
"What?"
"Ask me something."
"Why?"
"Yesterday, I asked your favorite color. Now it's your turn."
After a long pause, I whisper, "What do you think it would be like to live in black and white?"
"Boring. You?"
"Bipolar. Borderline."
You laugh. I don't.
"What's your favorite color?" I ask.
"All of them."
"All of them?"
"Yes, all of them."
"You can't like all of them."
"Says who?"
"You can't."
"Why not?"
"Because rainbows are like nature's Dissociative Identity Disorder. Or something." I watch your face carefully.
"What is it with you?"
"What?"
"You and all these disorders?"
"Does it bother you?"
"A bit."
"It's nothing. Just a hobby," I answer passively, then let go of your hand and leave you standing alone.

Today, I am ivory like the midwinter sky; today, there is no reason why.
Something has changed. I think it's me, but then again, it's always me because I'm never me - I'm never constant.
You don't take my hand anymore. You don't say my name, either, but I guess that's because you never even knew it from the start.
"Can I ask you something?" you say softly.
I do not respond.
"Can I?"
"You always do."
You hesitate, then go ahead. "Who are you?"
I shudder.
"You need to tell me who you are. I don't know."
I breathe deeply and stare at my feet. "I am…" I pause, fighting back either tears or vomit or both. "I am an empty trash bag in a recycling bin. A story unwritten by a writer unwilling." I can feel you watching me as I begin to tremble. "Melting snow and cold coffee and silver shadows and manic-depression. The hallucinations on the wall while a dreamer sleeps, a winter clock that is always one hour behind, a restless mind at 2:41am. A piece of broken glass shattered into a million different colors that no one even notices until someone steps on it and they begin to bleed a rainbow of red." I can't breathe now; I feel as if my lungs are caving in.
"You are not."
"That, too."
"What?"
"I am uncertainty and I am just – and I just hate uncertainty." I am sobbing now and I am ashamed. I run.

Today, I am silver like freshfallen snow; today is the day I let it all go.
I'm only making this harder; you're giving up hope and so am I. You've stopped trying to comprehend me, and so have I. I wish it were different, I wish I could breathe and laugh and cry and know that I'm alive. I wish I could explain, but it's too late. You wouldn't understand, and that terrifies me. Or maybe it's the possibility that you would understand that is most frightening.
You sit beside me in the branches of the tallest tree we can find out here in the winter darkness. I look at you, and you look at me – none of this was meant to be.
You shift uncomfortably, then touch my hand. I pull away.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I just really hate the snow."
"What? Why?"
"It isn't beautiful."
"What are you-"
"It just can't be beautiful. It's made of sorrow, it's made of rain."
"So are you."
"Exactly."

Today, I am black, and you are white; our shades of grey never came out right.