A Vivid Absence of Light

This is me musing about how I think, and really what I want in life.

 

Sometimes it will come to me in a dream, other times it will happen when I'm doing nothing really but staring, but no matter when it happens it always happens in one of two ways. I see, or rather, I think in two different ways. When it comes to decisions, and thoughts of the like, I see no faces. There is no color running through my mind, no movement. There is only sound, only the passionate or apathetic, biting remarks between two people: what I assume is myself and a section of my personality, whose voice is male. The voice, I have come to know, is named Henri. His voice is always calm, but this is not about him, or my logical thought process, this is about the other way I think.

This is about when I see in color. It's about when I am creating. When I am truly free to express myself as I please. When I create--write, specifically I see it all in my mind. At first, I am just a spectator. My eyes are to the floor, and I see only blurs I assume are their legs. As time progresses, it's little hands moving quickly-- out of sync with real life. I become more bold. Pictures become more vivid. I see the world around me, longer as glass. The character senses become my own. Their sights, smells, and pains mesh into mine. Even the most trivial things are noticed, such as a piece of litter caught in between an unforgiving trashcan and the ground. Everything becomes so crystal-like for a while, then the world around me disappears and a white wall forms. Similar to a planner, the actions and reactions manifest themselves. I can move them around with the touch of a finger, and edit them as I please.

I think in color and decide in black in white. It’s funny—how much detail I put into something that’s not even real, or into a dramatization what could happen. As an author, or an aspiring author, I think in pictures. Things are easily visualized and easily fabricated, and as I grow more eloquent with my written words. I find myself becoming more withdrawn. I yearn for a certain silence, not necessarily an absence of sound, but more of a silence in my brain. I want to become a respected literary figure, despite my age, but I find it hard to put my words on paper in a way that moves a person’s soul, even in the smallest way.