In the season of wintry days and dark skies, a ray of sunlight is seldom seen. It is a barren landscape shaped by dreary stone and withered time, who has now finally come to an end—its dim atmosphere stretches beyond the farthest horizon, the light won’t come again… The trees have all given up their leaves, the birds have fled from their nests, the grass seems to be neglected; and what remains is a world in an endless realm of gray. The dreams have turned to ashes; nothing moves except for the winds that shiver and haunt the structures long abandoned, alone and suffocated upon the Earth. It is a monotonous world built from two concepts: the dark and the light. There is no joy, no color, not even sadness. Nothing is felt.
In these circumstances does a flower become appreciated—not just flowers of bright yellow—but ones colored in deep blue similarly. In a world painted in only black and white, a flower of any color may be beautiful. It is cherished, fantastical—a miracle.
This is the realm of logic, of rules, of zeroes and ones, of black and white. Become engulfed in it and its dullness will outshadow one’s self. These clouds blot out the sun, and the cold drowns every particle of color. The burning passion of the roses have been lost, the joy in which the daisy brings, even the grief of the chrysanthemums are absent.
In these circumstances, one flower may be enough to bring the tears back.
Colors… emotions… they are all so foreign to this mind. That when a flower of death does bloom, it is all the same as a flower of life: beautiful, stark, mysterious. Ignorantly, the mind clings onto this precious tenderness, like a moth does to the warmth of a lamp at night. What is felt of empathy are the refreshing tears for another that nourish the roots of a dying sprout; gratitude being a drop of golden sunlight that falls upon wilted leaves.
Sadness and happiness become indistinguishable, and a tear is only a tear, but only because it is too complex to be understood any further. Through the black and white peek the colors of the past, resurfacing for a fleeting moment on the face of this cold Earth. I hold onto these feelings; they are—what I see—the only proof that I am still here. In this demised world of black and white, there is still a chance for those colors to rebloom.
I am sure of it—these colors have all existed in the past. Where have they all gone? Were they all temporary, all bound to vanish? Is this what emotions are? To what point of wisdom does one lose their color, that they become an immortal who is left to wander the barren land?
Write Our World 