Everything he looked at turned to grey. His friends, his family, cars, the trees.
Nothing made it to be more than a grey-scale nightmare.
He would always hear people talking, joy in their...hearts. The way they described things was beautiful.
It made him envious.
"Look at that gorgeous... car", "The grass is ... on the other side."
What was missing? He could never tell. But the absence of it was enough to collapse his heart on itself.
Day after day, hour after hour.
The sunrises were nothing more to him than a different shade of grey. Ones that he could only trust to mean a new day.
Collapsing with dusk, his mind began to numb. It had been fighting for such a long time, a battle to never be won.
Just a boy who wanted to be a hero. A boy who wanted to see the world in full colour.
It's all he ever was.
But the spectrum not once grabbed his hand to take him away, it left him to listen to conversations left with blanks.
With the occasional interruptions of, "for shame, for shame."
He spoke shakily,
"do you love me for my greying heart?"
It echoed slowly.
Soon, it drowned within silence.
His eyes opened to another day, his heart beating the same two notes on repeat.
Will it bleed? Will it bleed?
And if it does what will it be?
Will it be...?
Curtains widen with hope just to see, just to see,
that dawn isn't beautiful.
The dream continued on,
if it could never be called such.
The curtains pull back together, but never to a complete close. They always stay open, to let in white flickers of hope.
He refused to believe the world was truly colourless.
He walked down to the shoppes. They all had signs. Some modest and plain. Others flashy and eye-catching.
Though it only became blinding to see it in plain white.
He walked through the doors of one with a wooden sign. It smelled of fresh-baked bread and pleasantries.
But he walked up to the counter to exchange the same foul smells with the person who stood behind it.
Their smoky souls crawled down each others' throats looking for colour.
Nothing was there.
No colour at all.
The biggest diversity was in his heart, beating, but still black. The world felt cold.
He lay down in his bed after a day of eating rancid bread and choking down disdain.
His throat was clogged, he choked, coughed, and eventually drifted to unconsciousness.
He spoke steadily,
"do you love me for my blackened heart?
Even as it crumbles and falls apart
will you be the hourglass that holds the sands?
Slowly, will you let each grain through your hands
until time is up?"
His eyes opened to a new place. It was grey, what a surprise.
The walls were gradients, fading to a white center.
The air was stale, stagnant. No one had breathed it in a long time, if ever.
It wrapped around him like a blanket, but still he was cold.
He embraced himself, arms across his chest, and within his rib cage was an absence. The two notes were missing.
He looked down to his hands, they swirled with scars of black. Tattoos with no meaning.
No meaning to him.
A voice repeated the same two words to him, over and over again,
"For shame, for shame, for shame."
With each reverb, his heart started to follow.
Beating, b eating, beating, until--
The room gained colour, it looked like a vomited rainbow.
He smiled as he named each one,
"Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo...vi...olet."
He fell to the ground.
From his chest seeped the colours he sought after.
His black heart was never something devoid of colour. In fact, it was what had taken all the world's colour.
In his search for a rainbow in the "achromatic" life he lived, he was blind to the fact he already had it all.
Within the layers of his heart it had stayed, as he flipped past every colorless page.
And now the world you know and love is blessed with colours all around.
But even with all their fancy names, they're all just another shade of grey.
And if you believe that the world you see is just colourless, just take a look in your heart and see
that all colours of the visible spectrum are captured within your heartbeat.