The Colour White
I think I hate the colour white now. I use to think it was a nice colour it was bright and it went with everything. Now I hate it. I no longer think its bright. White is plain, boring, dull. And it never lies. And I know that is peculiar thing to say but it’s true. White is an honest colour. Everything mark and every stain is shown, there’s no hiding it. But black on the other hand is a liar. There could be a thousand stains on black but most of the time it’s very hard to tell. I think this works the same as people. The good people are like a white cloth, plain, clean and predictable. Every stain, every sin they do is so clearly out of place. The bad, the evil, they are like a black cloth. Every sin they commit blends into there personality. They are completely unpredictable. Just as likely to tell horrendous lies, as they are to tell you the truth. This makes them about a thousand times more interesting. But also a thousand times more likely to stab you in the back. I know this analogy doesn’t work for everyone in everything there are shades different colours. But I still love this metaphor even if it doesn’t one hundred precent make sense.
Jump or Run?
There are three types of people in this world. People who care people who don’t care and people who act. Act like there don’t care or sometimes, act like they do. I don’t know who I am sometimes I think I do but then others… I stand on top of our silver tin roof, the scalding metal burning my feet from baking in the hot sun all day. I don’t flinch or move them. The pain helps. Our house sits on the edge of a small cliff and I stand on the edge of the roof looking at the gushing river below me. Jessie! I glance around startled as I am every time somebody pulls me from my thoughts. Alyssa. My older sister by about 11 months. I close my eyes and turn my face to the wind sighing as the gentle breeze caresses my sunburnt face. Jessie! Come down or I’m gonna call mom! I don’t have long before mom comes and I’ll have to come down just the same as every time. I want to care, for them, I try act like I care. But I just can’t do this anymore! I can’t sit still while everybody else moves around me. I can’t be motionless while the world moves in a blur never stopping or slowing down. I long to be free. To run like the wind that rushes through the trees and races across the barren landscape. To rush like the river below me that never stops, never slows down, never sits still. I’m like a balloon full to the bursting with helium and everything is a string tying me down stopping me from floating away. There are so many strings. Too many strings. Alyssa is one of them. Sometimes I want to run away cut the strings and never look back. To rip out the roots that are so firmly planted in this family, this house, this town. But I’m afraid, what if I rip up the roots and then change my mind. What if I get sick of the constant moving, what if I just want to sit and watch the world pass by me and then I can’t regrown my roots can’t make new strings as strong as these. Sometimes I just want to slip from the burning roof to destroy the stings and the roots. I have three options though I’ve tried sitting still for years and that hasn’t worked, so the question is do I kill the tree or dig up the roots? Do I destroy the balloon or cut the stings? Do I jump or do I run?
Thoughts of the past
Who are you? I ask curious. The boy in front of my stares silently, his face overflowing with sadness. His lip quivers for a moment.
“I don’t know,” he says in a light melodic voice that betrays his sorrowful expression.
“What are you doing here,” I try again.
“I don’t know that either,” he replies.
“What do you know?” I ask bluntly.
“I know lots of things.”
His voice his different strange. He doesn’t sound like all the other kids my age. He speaks as though he use to being listened too and knows exactly the right words to say to get listened to. I move and sit cross-legged beside him so he doesn’t have to look up and I don’t have to look down. He stares into my eyes and I stare back. My green eyes search he’s dark blue ones. He looks away first and stares out at the green lake as though he’s looking for something, something far away that only he can see. “Who are you?” He asks me.
“Lalia,” I answer immediately.
He shakes his head “No that’s not what I asked.”
I sit silently confused.
He realises this and doesn’t expect an answer. “My name is Rhaini.”
I smile as I remember little me she was very bold. I think I like little Rhaini even better though. Even at the age of five I could tell he wasn’t like the other children I met, he was just different somehow. He was adorable, he had these huge dark blue eyes that almost seemed an unnatural colour and his black hair instead of falling in messy shaggy pieces all around his face, it sprung around his head in lots of black curls. When I think of this memory after ever time I can’t get his comment about there being a difference between who you were and the name you were given. I couldn’t comprehend what he was saying back then. At that age I didn’t think it was that difficult your name was who you were, I thought it was that simple. And he at the same age as me already knew the difference and that he wasn’t ready to be able to confidently say who he was yet. He was still figuring it out when I hadn’t even started. I use to have the world, now all I have is these four white walls, trapping me, confining me. In my old life everything I asked for a got, as long as it could be bought from a store. I just had to say the word and it was mine. Now I have nothing, not a single thing to call my own, or at least nothing I want to call my own. All my belongings now are basic cheap and white. White always white.
I don’t know how many days I’ve been here for. I wish I had of kept count better. There was no way for me to at the start. One day I forget the number and then I gave up. I think it’s been a year, though it feels like ten. The days drag out when you have nothing to do. All I have left are my memories and my dreams.
“I don’t know,” he says in a light melodic voice that betrays his sorrowful expression.
“What are you doing here,” I try again.
“I don’t know that either,” he replies.
“What do you know?” I ask bluntly.
“I know lots of things.”
His voice his different strange. He doesn’t sound like all the other kids my age. He speaks as though he use to being listened too and knows exactly the right words to say to get listened to. I move and sit cross-legged beside him so he doesn’t have to look up and I don’t have to look down. He stares into my eyes and I stare back. My green eyes search he’s dark blue ones. He looks away first and stares out at the green lake as though he’s looking for something, something far away that only he can see. “Who are you?” He asks me.
“Lalia,” I answer immediately.
He shakes his head “No that’s not what I asked.”
I sit silently confused.
He realises this and doesn’t expect an answer. “My name is Rhaini.”
I smile as I remember little me she was very bold. I think I like little Rhaini even better though. Even at the age of five I could tell he wasn’t like the other children I met, he was just different somehow. He was adorable, he had these huge dark blue eyes that almost seemed an unnatural colour and his black hair instead of falling in messy shaggy pieces all around his face, it sprung around his head in lots of black curls. When I think of this memory after ever time I can’t get his comment about there being a difference between who you were and the name you were given. I couldn’t comprehend what he was saying back then. At that age I didn’t think it was that difficult your name was who you were, I thought it was that simple. And he at the same age as me already knew the difference and that he wasn’t ready to be able to confidently say who he was yet. He was still figuring it out when I hadn’t even started. I use to have the world, now all I have is these four white walls, trapping me, confining me. In my old life everything I asked for a got, as long as it could be bought from a store. I just had to say the word and it was mine. Now I have nothing, not a single thing to call my own, or at least nothing I want to call my own. All my belongings now are basic cheap and white. White always white.
I don’t know how many days I’ve been here for. I wish I had of kept count better. There was no way for me to at the start. One day I forget the number and then I gave up. I think it’s been a year, though it feels like ten. The days drag out when you have nothing to do. All I have left are my memories and my dreams.