In the world I come from, we see and speak in colors. I was born as brilliant violet swirling with faintest hints of pink, with a breath of smoke that wafted and puffed between each word.
Now that I’m older, I’ll settle for blues and grays. I lounge with you beneath starlit skies and dream with you in color.
“Tell me again,” you say, “about the land of your youth.”
But it’s gone now, all but forgotten, replaced by the land of smells and sounds and touch as delicate as a feather, touch as hard as iron. Truth is, I don’t miss it, not really. I hold its shades forever in my heart.
I reach for a sketchpad, for my markers and for inspiration, and then I begin to slowly draw, to draw out the splashes of fervent, fevered color dreams.
“Like this,” I say, scraping black pen against paper. “And like this,” I say, jabbing the paper with fluorescent pink.
Gone, perhaps, but never forgotten. Gone but not forgotten.
I knew that I wanted to write this about someone who loves and misses their native land, but I struggled with what land to portray, so I opted for this fantasy story about a magical land. Hope you enjoyed it.