Red. Yellow. Blue. Green.
The most basic of all colours.
These are what I see. These are what flavour my air, and what scent my food. These are what I see when I close my eyes. When I dream. I know there must be other colours but these, these are the only ones that remain here. These are my world.
My world. I wander from room to room looking for an exit. I don’t know what this building is. I only know that I am inside it and that the outside is a place I have never been.
Reading my journal, I see entries that I do not remember ever having written. They tell of an outside, of a desert. Of a tree. I do not recall these things, and if the journal were not written in my own hand, I would think that I had been given this book by another. No, I definitely wrote it and I definitely was in such a place. But I remember not. Even re-reading my own words does not bring back anything of that place.
There are no windows here. I do not know what time it is. I wake. I sleep. But I do not do so on a schedule. There are no clocks, none that work at any rate.
I like to sleep in the green room. A green room. I do not know if there are many or one, the configuration of this place is confusing, maze-like. The green room is comfortable, and so I sleep there. When I awake, I seek out a blue room. There I rest, and write, and read, and think. After a while, I become hungry, and I seek out the apples. Apples fall from the ceilings, here, you see. I say ceilings — there is only darkness above me. If there is a ceiling, it is lofty, and obscured in the murk. From there come the apples, and I eat to my fill.
There is light here, but it seems to diffuse from the walls. It does not penetrate much above my height. I don’t think too much about what is above, for I’m afraid that if I delve those depths I may never stop screaming.
Today, the apples were in the yellow room. I like the yellow room. It’s bright, like the sun. I say the sun — I can’t recall ever seeing the sun, but my vague impression of “sun” is that it would be bright and cheerful like the yellow room.
When I grow tired, I seek out the red room. There I sit, and I listen. I do not sleep, not yet. I merely sit. I wait. I wait for a thought, or a word, or a sound, or a sight. Something that will tell me where to go, what to do, what I’m here for. Who or what I am. Where or what this place is.
Sometimes, I can sit and listen and wait for eons despite nothing coming. I can be patient. My mind can be restful and open.
Today is not one of those times. Today, I re-read my journal. Short though it is, there is surely a clue here. He (me, for it must be me but I cannot help but think of that me as He) wandered in a barren land. I wander a colourful labyrinth. He came across She.
She must be the key.
I hear a noise. I follow it. It sounds like moving furniture. I enter the blue room.
She is there.
She is here. This place is She.
As I watch, She pays me no notice. Is She but a vision? Am I?
She reads. She eats. She watches the rains of apples.
I long to speak to She, to find out who She is or what She is here for. What I’m here for. What I am. But I simply cannot make my mouth work. It’s dry. Dead. Besides, nothing I could possibly say could communicate the myriad things which I need to ask. In my mind they are not yet clear — how then can I utter them aloud?
As we stand in the green room, my mind racing, She stands and walks towards me. Alarmed, I freeze. I try to meet the eyes, but She looks through me. I step aside, and She passes me. I follow. I remember. I remember the voice of She. I remember the song.
And with that, as though bidden by me, no, perhaps, created by me, She sings.
A sadness comes from She and despite myself, I find the sadness beautiful. We are all wounded, we are all tired, She sings, and we are beautiful for it. I’m sorry that I’ve never noticed this truth for myself.
She sings of dreams carried on the breezes of spring. She sings of the clouds of summer, moving in and obscuring the sky. She speaks of the heartbreaking beauty of autumn skies. She sings of the soul-chilling cold of the winter seas, painting a picture that squeezes my mind. I want to see what She has seen. I want to see with She.
She sings of one with whom She is always with, one who is there for the good and the bad. Me? Or He? I cannot say.
She sings of detours, of losing one’s way. She sings of the rewards that await those who patiently search. I have remained patient in this labyrinth for so long — I can be patient longer, if I must. She sings that, so long as the one She sings of is near, She can go on.
I’m here! Look! I run to She but try as I might I cannot reach where She is. She walks from room to room, and though I’m running as fast as I can, I’m always just behind. The song is over, but it remains in this place, echoing in the silence. It remains in my ears. It remains in my soul.
I follow. I try to catch She. I try to make my presence known. She is oblivious, walking from room to room, through door after door. She stops.
She confronts a door which I have never seen. This is the blue room. I know the blue room. I do not know that door. She opens it.
She exits, and I must break my stupor to follow.
I am outside. The sun is blindingly bright after the inside of that place. I look back. A large, boarded up mansion. I stand in its yard, surrounded by its wrought-iron fence. At the edge of my hearing, I can just make out the ocean. In the sky, the clouds of autumn. Tears fill my eyes and the world blurs.
She opens the gate. She walks away. I cannot move. I cannot follow. The tears flow freely, and the world swims away.