Do colors exist?
Do colors exist? colorful stories
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sailing2themoon
sailing2themoon Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
A blind man is sitting in the Garden of Eden. The life around him is intoxicating, the colors are so very bright. It is venomous. The sound of a thousand butterflies fluttering around. The buzzing of the ever so busy bees. The tweeting of the invisible birds hiding in the chill safety shadows of the tree trunks. They are all signs of life. Signs that the man is not alone.

Do colors exist?

A blind man is sitting in the Garden of Eden. The life around him is intoxicating, the colors are so very bright. It is venomous.

The sound of a thousand butterflies fluttering around. The buzzing of the ever so busy bees. The tweeting of the invisible birds hiding in the chill safety shadows of the tree trunks. They are all signs of life. Signs that the man is not alone.

Companions in whom the blind man shares the same struggles. The struggles of life.

Yet all the blind man feels is solitude. He is surrounded by the life-taking beauty of the Garden of Eden, a place that people would be willing to kill to exist in.

He just wishes he could trade his place in this holy Garden.

He wishes that the joy it was supposed to bring him, that it could transfer to any of the many good souls knocking on the Gates of Eden.

He so wishes that the pain he feels, did not taint this sacred haven. Every single person knocking at the gates deserve the safety of this place so much more than this crippled man.

That is what he feels.

As time might be a distant memory within these timeless hedges of peace, it is still something that cannot be forgotten.

In an unknown past, future or even another dimension, he remembers someone being in this exact Garden.

This might have been him, it might have been a stranger, it might have been no one, and just a distant dream. But, whoever or whatever this being was, it believed in the paradise.

It might not have understood it, but it believed in the life in the Garden.

It believed in the butterflies and the bees, it believed in the stories of nothing that the birds were singing out loud. It saw the colors.

But at some point, whatever it was in the garden became something. It became something with thoughts. It ate the forbidden fruit and became a boy. A boy has a mind, a boy has dreams.

A boy is clueless. It might have been against the Garden rules to become something. Yet, he was allowed to stay. Though, the eyes from above never let their sight rest. They always watched.

Like they were the guardians of the Garden. The keepers of paradise. The upholders of nonsense.

The sun shone light into the Garden as never before. The colors should have been plentiful, yet the Boy had become colorblind. The boy no longer believed in the Garden.

The butterflies hated him now, the bees were no more, and he could no longer understand the words the birds were singing. Life had stopped believing in the boy. So, he chose to forget.

Forget about the Garden, even while it was still his only world. As the Garden faded from his memory, he still remembered the feelings of seeing colors. It became an addiction.

A drug that he didn’t know existed, but a drug he had to find. A drug to make him believe. To make him understand.

The need and the longing made him jump. Jump to scout over hedge to see if there were any signs of colors in the distance. It made him jump to distract him from his longings.

As time did not exist in the Garden, it is unclear for how long the boy was jumping. It might differ depending on who you ask and whenever you ask them.

During the everlasting jumping, inside the boy’s head, an idea was forming.

It is unknown whether the boy believed he finally saw what resembled colors in the far, far distance or if it was a cancerous dream that had planted its seeds,

but he chose to take on an adventure. An adventure with the sole mission to find colors.

He left the colorless Garden without any thoughts, yet a single tear was to spot on the boy’s cheek as he left the safety of his dying paradise.

The world outside the Garden seemed to be a difference nuance of colorless. At times it was intoxicating, even motivating. Other times it made the boy oh so dreadful.

At first it was easy to forget his mission, it was easy to suppress his withdrawal.

The people from this new world spoke of colors, they spoke about where to find them and which directions to follow.

The boy acted like a bloodhound, seeking out the places where colors had been sighted. He ran, he sought, he fought.

He never allowed himself to feel tired as he had never truly felt tired before. This world was unknown to him. As his body was running on fumes, his mind was going into overdrive.

As time had never been a thing to consider back in the safety of the Garden, it was now the most precious of all treasures. But the boy’s mind did not make him think about that.

Instead, to keep him going, it gave him the strongest and most dangerous injection of them all: hope. The boy lost his sight, he lost his hearing, he lost almost all of his senses.

Yet, he could still feel his heart. He thought his heart might have found the place where colors were. He could feel his heart, he could hear it, but his mind chose not to listen.

His heart was crying. Not because it was particularly sad, but because it was so tired. Too tired. His heart could no longer see any tracks of colors, it had lost its way. It had lost the boy.

It was trying to tell him, it was trying to warn him. But it didn’t have the strength to fight any longer. His mind had won, and the heart was forgotten.

As the last drops of hope was leaving the boy, the mind commanded the boy to do the last heartlessly push to find the long-sought colorful Eden. Even if it meant it would be in the afterlife.

Without strength, without a heart, with a devilish mind, the boy’s essence started to crumble.

As he was losing himself, fading into a colorless nothing, his last hope seemed to be in the life after this.

As he felt every molecule of his body starting to split and disappear, he started to think of his Garden. He missed the butterflies. The more he thought of the Garden, the more it hurt to die.

Midst all the pain a voice was to be heard. It was his Garden and it was calling out to him.

As the voice grew closer it became clear to the boy, that it wasn’t his Garden, it was someone else. The voice was describing a Garden, similar to his own, yet so very different.

Though, the boy could no longer see, in his mind, he knew, that the other’s garden also had become colorless. As the voice kept singing in his mind, he felt less alone.

Was this the afterlife?
He felt the molecules stop leaving his body. They started to reform. The boy did not know in which shape or form he would reappear in. He did not care.

He just hoped that he would be somewhat whole again.

The boy is no longer a boy. He has become a man. The man still cannot see. He cannot hear, yet the voice still accompanies him. It gives him the strength to feel.

All the man can do is to feel the world around him. He is back in his Garden. The butterflies do not hate him anymore.

He can hear and understand the birds, but their words are irrelevant to him. And even though, he cannot see, he can feel the colors all around him. He can feel them, brighter than ever before.

But he doesn’t care. Colors mean nothing to him anymore. His shattered body is hurting, and his mind is gone. His heart is beating, but he doesn’t know why.

The eyes are no longer watching from above, the guards are no longer patrolling the Garden, and the fruit is no longer forbidden. The hedges are gone, he is free to leave.

Yet, the man does not wish to leave. He does not wish to stay. He does not wish to forget. All he wishes for is to finally understand.

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