colors ;; phan

-Chapter One-

-Dan-

My eyes travel over the sky, an immense ethereal feeling washing over me like a waterfall, except instead of wet and harsh, the waterfall was warm, and bright, and faded, pleasant.

As I stare upwards at the sunset's swirls of pinks, oranges, and yellows, I feel the burning need to reach out as if I could grasp the faded worn colors.

Grasp them in my hands and tear them from their placement in the sky down to the earth, pull the sky down to crush me, to fade the entirety of it all away.

Oh how easy that would be if it was an element of reality and not just a figment of my imagination.

If I ever was given the chance to pull them down from their spot above the clouds, I would hope that they would be able to do their worst.

I hope that those splattered colors would somehow find a mystical way to destroy my worries, to eliminate my stress, to evaporate my sadness, into a cloud of dust, chalky, pastel, dust. Oh how beautiful that would be.

But as much as I wished I could, I couldn't, and as many times as I tried, tried to somehow pull them down, the sky's soft colors wouldn't budge, like they were glued into place in the blue wispy sky.

And as the warm colors basked in the sunlight high above the ground, shifting over the sky until they slid down, melting together in a mess of pastel, they left without me, never allowing me to come with them, to make it all better.

I had always made up a little scenario in my head that they would carry me up to where I could be happy, something that was merely impossible down here.

That they could carry me to where the life I had long ago labeled as insignificant would be forgotten even more than it already had been.

That everything I ever was would gather in the sky as the pastel colors that will always only be seen at the time of evening, where the sun would cradle and sustain all of my being until I reached the darkness of where I would soon return the next day.

At least that's what I would like to believe is after death, I always have tried my best to believe that we all just drift into the sky, our spirits, all our thoughts and every fiber of our existence just feathers into the soft colors of the evening for everyone to see and remember.

Never forgotten, just there, for people to stare at in awe, stare at the disregarded colors that they assumed held no other meaning to them but the simple scientific fact that they were just proof of the sun setting.

Yet they held a million thoughts, hopes, dreams, wishes, everything everyone ever was.

Now I sit, perched over the cold porcelain edge of the bathtub, small sobs sputtering from my lips, my frail and shaky hand resting a dulled blade against the milky white skin of my wrist, the cold sharpness sending a shiver up my spine.

It was ready, ready to dig deeper over the red lines than ever before, to just end it all, and I had planned to do just that, as it was what I assumed would solve my problems.

Yet I hesitate, halting the blade from ending it all as my mind urges me to continue.

I want to become the colors in the sky. I want to float up into the sky and be forgotten. "Just do it. Just become one of the colors."  The unnerving voice in my head taunts, and another voice, one less intimidating rises over the other, momentarily reminding me that everything would be over.

And although that voice gave me a bit of hope, things of higher power usually came out as winners in the end, and it just so happened that the part of me telling myself to carry out the action was the higher power in this situation.