as i've been more lonely than before lately, i have been musing myself with writing a story in my mind never wrote it, never tale it before now, i just muse myself with its company and its place in my mind.
that story is about a girl, A girl who sees colors when there aren't any !!.
She sees building facades red and green.
she sees cars as cartoon creatures.
flowers talks to her.
She doesn't see the ugliness of life.
as she lives in here own world/in her own bubble, getting her energy refilled from her long walks in the worm morning sun everyday, where streets are clear, and peaceful, and its just her, her music and the sun raising, brightening the world around her..
sunrise has always been a mood changing event for her since she was a little girl.
it instantly makes her feel fine and cheered.
so whenever I need some entertainment and/or support, I dig deeply in my mind and wonder what would the girl who sees colors do..
and that's what I come up with:-
and that's what I come up with:-
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.
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.
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 in the balcony steel chair, where the sun sheds its rays.and the wind gently cuddles her face
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.
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 from her balcony, heads back to where it came from, behind the sun.
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