Every morning before I get up before the sun rises. Darkness blows over the land.
Everything is black.
The first light appears, and the sky is now grey. Stepping outside I take in my surroundings, a large wheat field and a huge forest. The dirt path is dry and cracked. Trees reaching the sky, touching the stars.
Running, the one thing that keeps me alive, mentally. Winter is just around the corner, and the temperature is beggining to drop. With the music blasting into my ears, I run. Left, right, left, right, perfect pace. Every breath turns into a small cloud, disappearing after a few seconds.
Winter is the best season, cold days, hot chocolate and Christmas. Who doesn't like Christmas? All the present, gifts and chocolates wrapped up in patterned wrapping paper. My mind tends to roam whilst running, it keeps me busy.
Stepping back into the house, I feel the sweat pour off me like a waterfall. I step into the shower and let the hot water soak my skin. The sun rose a few minutes ago and the house starts to wake up. Pots and pans are crashing into each other, heavy footsteps rush around the house. Sounds of war start to rise, screams echo the hallways. Mother shouts at the children as a sergeant would do to his men. At the kitchen table it's loud, almost too loud. I leave.
Paint splattered floors, messed up bed, desk filled to the top, My bedroom. Never has been tidy. There are painting on the walls, only one gap left. A blank canvas sits on the desk, waiting to be filled. I start to paint. I don't know what I'm painting, my hand may be moving, but my mind lays elsewhere. The colours are plain: grey, white, black. I never use any other colour, there's no point. Everything I own is grey, white or black, not that I know how anything else looks like. The world for me is dull. There is no colour. What is red? The warmth they talk about. What does it look like? Why can't I see it? I always ask myself, but there's never an answer.
I look back at my painting; it's of the forest. Every stroke has it's story, the detail are fine and accurate. But it's just a painting that's going to sit on the wall. I hang it up. My walls are complete. I stare out of the window and think to my self:
"What if I could see actual colours?"