He is a quiet one. He speaks when he feels he needs to, and not when others want him to. He listens to everything around him, but never joins in. He thinks, he sees, he listens, and he waits, but in the end, there is nothing that changes the colors he sees740Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7gugxbM3u3
He is a realistic one, seeing the world around him in varying shades of gray, and most often not, a pitch unfiltered black. No white, because in his words, "There is no one on this planet without a personal reason for what they do." Black and grey is all he sees, and sometimes, he wishes he could see more, but at the same time, knows that he would always return to the same two colors in the end. That is who he is.
In life, those two colors are all he ever sees...but...while it may be brief. There are things that could change those colors, if only for a bit. And by looking at those colors, by remembering the sights that came with them, the warmth of it all...he creates his own by weaving his thoughts on paper.
Weaving the words like an intricate web, and spinning it's thread in ways that would help his remember. To recall that same sensation that came with the myriad of colors...the warmth...the excitable emotions, as well as the numbing ones. He puts it all into words, and if his memories were not enough, if he wanted more, he would weave his straying thoughts into tales that would produce them.
To feel, he would read. To see, he would write. To touch, he would remember. For even as short as it was, he wanted to see something other than black and grey. He wants to feel something brighter and light, not darker and heavy. For since he sees only grey and black, he wants to see colors as bright as the warming yellow, to such shades like the calming blue. And sometimes, only sometimes, he wishes he could see the ever brightest of whites...but a wish is only a wish, because in the end, it never comes true.
He is quiet. He is cynical. He reads to feel, and he writes to see. He watches, he sees, he listens, and he waits, but he never moves. And as time moves for others, he stays frozen in place. As he watches others, he hopes he could see the colors they do. And as he listens, he wishes he could feel just for the sake of feeling.
He is quiet...he is unmoving...watching...and tired. He is so, very, very tired.
ns 15.158.61.48da2
