A Lost Colour

I was standing in the middle of a road, and made the mistake of looking back instead of forward. At least, I think it was a mistake, I'm still not quite sure. The lights were dim but I could make out a distant figure in the strangely familiar grey fog. I had forgotten about that figure. Guilt flowed into me like a river to the sea, and so did the memories. They were covered in a sheen of colour, though I couldn't yet tell which one. And as I breathed in the old scent, it felt as if I were learning a language, a language sunk deep within me that was finally floating towards the shore. I saw the arms of an ancient clock and as I went to touch it, it took me back, and I was reliving it all. I was wholly submerged into my recollections, like a heavy rock sinking to the bottom of the ocean, or a light feather being voluntarily cradled by the waves. I remembered laughing and smiling, and believing in anything that the figure had said. It had started to take a more human appearance. All at once I was pulled out of the sea and thrown onto a familiarly unfamiliar shore. The memories were in front of me and I could see the colour now; It was white; And after all these years I finally understood why. They were this blank shade of innocence and childishness that we all lose somewhere along the road. Perhaps that is why we cling to these memories, why we hold them so close to our hearts, our souls. The figure was so close now, if I could just reach out and embrace it, but I knew that soon I would unlearn that language taught to me oh so long ago; I knew that I would have to let it go, as I had what now seemed mere seconds before. And as it slipped out of my arms, I stood there. Maybe this had been a mistake, but I was grateful for it anyway. I looked ahead, the sky black; And I promised myself to paint a few white clouds someday.