Our COlors, Their colors
1 minute read
Maroon passes the window and I wonder whether, for a single, miraculous moment, I have been taken to another hour, so many years earlier; to another bus, so many miles away. No. These blazers are not the same as the ones we loathed when we lived in blue. Now, the blue hangs in shadows, with dust growing in place of fingerprints-- yours, mine: the marks of friendship. Through this glass, I have found a cruel mirror world--here are leaves, damp, against the curb, yet their colour-- their colour, that is the thing. Instead of green, or gold, or even that dull brown, they are purple. Here, even nature preens itself, somehow adopting these exotic shades which so mar what I know to be true. Do you remember kicking those orange piles with black shoes? They wear white trainers now. But perhaps I can soothe myself, knowing that darkness will bring a blanket color to blazers, leaves, shoes, all. This world cannot be avoided, and memories cannot be forgotten; all must live together so that I may know, remember, and act as a living being must.
Oskar Leonard is an 18 year old from the UK whose prized possessions include a cool rock, useless shiny things, and who might have accidentally created a velcro-worshipping cult.