The Colorblind Man

Why him, out of all people, should he deserve his story to be told? must you wonder in annoyance?

Well, people thought ill of him. He was mad they said. He was thrown aside because no one bothered to care. No one bothered to look at him. He described himself as quiet, awkward and slow. Truth is, people feared him. He was different, but what’s the meaning of being different in a world of indifference?

To most, he was just like any man: he had a car, a phone, a job, a roof to sleep under. He was seemingly overworked, but he carried on. He had two legs, two arms, two eyes and a head… He really was like any other man.

Except he had an old soul. And he was fond of words, art, science. Knowledge was what kept him alive. He loved learning… and observing. Unlike most, he didn’t contribute to the self-destruction of the world. He remained quiet, invisible to many, forgotten by many… but little did he know how much he mattered.

He was lunatic… and colorblind. To him, the moon was his safe space. To him, the sky wasn’t blue. Actually, most colors were invisible to him… just like he was to most people. He didn’t see colors the way most people do; he didn’t see the world like you and I do. Yet he tried to paint it with words.  He wandered around the universe, explored its myriad of wonders. He was

quiet, as previously said. He walked his head down, wishing to go unnoticed. His footsteps were merely a whisper, but he left imprints of wonder wherever he set foot. In his trails were left scarce traces of humanity. He knew the power of words, and the power of art. He was both erudite and dreamy – both proud and humble. His wit made him earnest and creative. He had a passion for the things that weren’t things. He had a deep sense of wonder for the world around and within him. He was one of the most self-conscious human beings you could’ve ever met; he was both aware of his existence and his non-existence. He loved life and hated it, but wrote about how he wished he could make it right.

He had had a tumultuous past and carried a heart-wrenching story, yet he had an open heart that remained untamed. He had come from a distant holy land, one that bore the tale of a mystic savior. He had grown up while moving from city to city, as though he couldn’t find exactly where he belonged. He was forcefully confined to loneliness over the years, but he grabbed his own hand and tied his own laces. He went on for a run and never stopped since then. Nothing – and no one – could stop him. Maybe he didn’t know where he was headed, and maybe he had lost his way along the journey, but he had known better than to give up. Life might’ve had given up on him, but he hadn’t.

One day, he met a young woman. One who seemingly shared his sense of wonder about the universe. One who sought for humanity, but was left bitter from it. One who struggled to understand the meaning of colors – one who loved both the absence of them and the blend of all of them. One who tried to remain invisible one day, then tried to please everyone the next day. One who cared more for Saturn and Venus than for the moon and the sun. In a way, they were so different and yet they bonded beyond their differences. He offered peace and forgiveness to her life ; she offered care and quietness to his. He saw her for her true colors that she hadn’t even been aware of carrying. He felt his mask of sanity slip; she felt her mask of anonymity slip.

As said earlier, maybe you think his story doesn’t deserve to be told, since he was just like any man who didn’t create an outstanding thing. What makes his story worth telling isn’t his being like any other man. It’s his being colorblind for all superficial colors of contemporaneity. It’s his being non-colorblind for the universe… and for her.

Because he saw her colors. They may never have touched, but they left a mark on each other. They left a painting for the other to contemplate if one day they were to be parted forever. A painting that witnessed their madness… and happiness. Even if it wasn’t meant to last, the light was there. Shy, as the both of them, but also loud, as their poetry.

It’s true he didn’t change the world. But he didn’t have to. He had changed hers.

Written By Laurence H,

I’m from Montreal, Canada. Everything related to art is my oxygen, even though I’m not doing it for a living. Writing a novel has been my dream since age 10. Creativity enables me to connect with the world.

Week 26, July 2021