Colorblind

Her fingers flowed effortlessly across the keys, a familiar and comforting sound, each finger tirelessly beating down the small bits of plastic. Words poured out of her mind, spilling onto the screen in front of her. She breathed in, smelling the sea salt, the brisk winter air, the water. She felt the soft caresses of her sweater, and her brunette hair whipped across her face, every once in awhile momentarily blinding her. But she couldn’t see the colors. The color of the deep blue and green water, the bright orange beaks of the sea gulls, the woody brown of the pier, the rust colored nails.

Colorblind.

As she paused to peer up at the scene before her, a small child caught her attention.
Splashing, playing freely, tirelessly, carelessly.

So innocent, so naïve.

So carefree.

She let her mind wander for a few moments, carefully avoiding the painful memories and then once again began to write. Writing could let her be who she wanted. She could create any character, and personality, any being.

I am colorblind
Coffee black and egg white
Pull me out from inside
I am ready
I am ready
I am ready,
I am fine.

Writing was an addiction. The kind of addiction that distracted you from pain, the kind that soothed over the scars, that eased the dull numbness that was always in the recesses of her mind. The kind that let her escape for a brief period in the seemingly endless time that dragged on.