First, the world loses its colour.
You wonder if life has always been this grey, drenched in a vapor of misery that numbs the skull.
Listless, you carry on as usual, feigning ignorance about the giddy gnawing at the tip of your tongue.
Speaking, you let spill meaninglessness, for what had once held you thrall now seemed like trifles.
‘So…did you read about the…’
The news? Really? Is that what you had wanted to talk about when you opened your mouth?
There is a warmth at the back of your throat. Like the burn of alcohol, only stronger.
You utter a name.
Magic, this name. It evokes an enchantment that pokes a hole into your chest. A tide of crimson spills forth upon all that you touch and suddenly there is colour, a garish red lining weaved around your fingertips, effervescing into the abyssal grey like so many rays of sun.
With it, a searing emptiness.
Your chest, it burns. You hold your hands against it to staunch the flow, thinking that with pressure this flood will cease, like all the trivial others before it. As your fingers clench tight, there comes a false weight upon your mind, made real by your determination that all wounds can be staunched, if one simply persisted.
Then you notice the colours.
How bright it is, this vivid canvas. It drapes over the grey, shuffling out of sight all that is ugly and cruel. At first you are doubtful, for such an obvious lie could only beguile the foolish, for underneath it the vapidity remains, unchanged by the kaleidoscopic light smeared over its despondent face.
But that’s the thing.
You are foolish.
What an insidious accusation. You rail against it, for you are no fool, and no evocation of a singular name should ever elicit such a flood of torturous rainbows. Colours be damned; let it all be grey, as it ever will be. It is the only world in which you have lived, and no miserly lie can lift you elsewhere.
This world of colour is what you have always wanted. All along you knew it to be illusory and fickle, and yet you pursued.
Because it makes the world beautiful.
Speaking again, you relent and let down your clutching hand.
‘Yeah…think I’m in love.’
See? Not so bad is it, being a fool.
For that is what you are.
Yearning to be free of the greyness,
You have fallen in love.