Prologue
One day, I text a friend of mine that I want to write a story, but what shall I write about. He replies "write about a girl who sees colors when there aren't any. She sees building facades red and green. And cars as cartoon creatures. And flowers talking to her. She doesn't see the ugliness of life."
I instantly fall in love with that, and feel half-jealous that I was not the one who came up with it, even if I was the inspiration for it. So, on several later occasions, when I need some entertainment and/or support, I text him asking to tell me what the "girl who sees colors" do.. and that's what I get.
The Girl who Sees Colors: Random Musings
what would the girl who sees colors do now? Blow soap bubbles and observe them as they fly up towards the ceiling and stick to it, then give fruit to other smaller bubbles like raisin grapes?
The girl never saw herself. She doesn't know how she actually looks like. And for this reason, she never gets old. People only get older when they look to themselves in mirrors. She only sees others and knows herself through their stories.
The girl, when she's sad, she takes a pile of white paper, coloring pens, and a pair of scissors. She sits on the dining room table, facing the window, where the sun sheds its rays. On each sheet of paper, she would draw a butterfly. Big butterflies for the big concerns, and small butterflies for the small concerns. She would then start coloring them: she would paint in hot colors the ones that are noisy, that speak a lot, and in pale colors the ones that do not speak much, but who are hiding deeper inside her head. When she's done coloring them, she would slowly start cutting them with the scissors. As soon as she's done cutting a butterfly, its wings would start clapping, as if they were waking up after years of sleep. Then it would fly immediately out of the window, heading back to where it came from, behind the sun.
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Just a random cross-section in a perfect world.
