The world just seems like an endless sea of a dull grey, and every slanted ray of light shimmers once, twice, and then never, or is it forever? He wouldn’t know, his ebony eyes have long lost the spark filled only with that desolate deadness which comes with the dreary desert of not belonging, but then, who does belong in this strange, strange new world of ours? It is in the skies, his destiny is pre-written and nothing about it can be changed, the only question here is- will he have the courage to face it?
These shades of black and white which paint his world in the most bizarre of colours (even if they are only monochromatic) and make him think that he has been cursed with insanity, but never once has he actually thought that it might be true. Is he insane? No, he doesn’t know the meaning of the word, insanity is for the people who lock themselves in cages and look out at the world through windows, insanity is for the people whose eyes are barely slits of a fiery red. Insanity is not for him.
His beautiful ebony eyes are now a dull blue.
His world is now dappled in sunlight, in soft, convincing shades of yellow and brown, but all he sees is a cold, frosty blue and every orb is a new prophecy, even in this new place he is still alive, fighting for his existence and yet it is not death…barely away from it.
Behave, or there will be no supper for you.
It’s his custom to fight destiny, or try as it is, but he ultimately gives in to the inevitable, he breaks himself.
His broken soul shatters, but it is veiled by some false facade, and his piercing black eyes (or rather a dull shade of blue) are a streak of night in the inky sky. The blue betrays innocence, the child-like innocence of which we dream about on a summery day when may blossoms float in the air, first this way, then that way, never really belonging anywhere. It makes him wish he had seen a summer day for every day has brought a bitter wind to him.
Behave, or you will stay in your room.
And even as he looks out of his cold, steel cage, he realizes that he is standing on the very brink of insanity and behind him is a safe world, a grey, boring world yet a safe one and ahead of him is an abyss where every shout and scream is lost in a flutter of the wind, faded away into the dull normalcy and monotony of the shadows.
What he sees is a different place; one he doesn’t like and will never return to again. So he teeters for a moment and then turns back. But the world is turning with him, and everything is mixing in a dizzying blend of colours, odours and sounds till he has to shield his eyes in one last ditch attempt to retain his sanity.
It’s a façade, a charade, that comes into play.
The world is painted in softer shades of beiges and pale pinks now and there is no longer anything in between him and that line he drew up for himself. He stands apart and watches the world moving around him and in that one split-second he tears his eyes off it freezes in what seems like eternity. He sees no horizon, this new world that he has chosen seems to stretch endlessly but at least it is no longer gray and it reflects his heart, his eyes are not the enigmatic pools of silver he thinks they are but rather the empty, vacant chasm he wished them to be.
Eyes are windows to the soul it is said, so when your eyes are a mirthless gray, you have no soul?
When he sees what is and what could have been.
When one man realises who he really is, not who he wants to be but who he is, it is at that point the world stops.
Then it turns around, no more than a stage for the man to live his life as a fallacy and any moment he expects someone to say that it is up, he can stop acting now. When the call doesn’t come he looks up at the sky for an answer and it seems to be laughing in his face, all those answers that had been written across it are no less than a cacophony of meaningless sounds. It isn’t the sky that has changed, it’s his eyes.
His mind is alive, his heart is dead.
The world has turned a blinding white and even in the brightness it is an endless downward spiral of a swirling black till every law of motion that he has been taught (endless hours of staring at the floor in Muggle school)is defied and to clearly define up or down is deemed impossible. He no longer sees any black or white but every shade in between.
His mind screams for answers but all he receives is more questions, one more than he needed. Till even he is spinning around in dizzying circles( trying to keep himself straight midst the motion) and falls down with an empty cry that reverberates throughout his skull like a thousand voices screaming when the only voice shouting is his own.
We have no choice in who we are, he thinks. Its destiny. It’s no longer a matter of our decisions, or whether we even make the right ones. It’s just how we face up to the choices we haven’t made.
And one last time he looks up high,
The sky is veiled by a deathly frost,
He screams and still hears no reply,
And he knows it is his reflection lost.