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People see the world in such strange ways. 

Sometimes, when I have nothing better to do, I try to emulate their perspective, full of wonder and melancholy. The world is but an interaction of colours, some see it just as it is supposed to be seen, in all those magnificent colours that they can comprehend. I find them the most boring. They do not seek the vision of colours they cannot comprehend, the ones they cannot fathom.

Then there are those who see it as the normal do, but in a lesser array of colours. Even literally, so. The colour-blind, the naive, the misfortunate. Their eyes see the world, marred with specks of what haunts them, what gives them hope. For some,  it, the world that is, is a daunting place. One full of misery, and desperation. For some, it is a beautiful place. One where the roses don’t have thorns, full of innocence, and happiness. They are twisted. 

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Then are those who cannot see, they’re not always blind- unknowing of the colours that surround them. Children, who could not see their light- abandoned, aborted. People of unshakeable faith- religious zealots, those who believe in objectiveness. They’re blind, they don’t paint their truth, they just see the colours that others show them. Always fixated, unmoving, stone. I try not to, but I dislike them, I truly do. How can they ignore all those beautiful shades around them? Specks of red, blue and white- all ignored. They can see them and yet they choose not to.

How foolish.

Please do not mind my unrelated comments, I try not to hate. I do.

Finally, the ones who paint their own reality. Do not be confused, they are different from those who paint their own truth onto the world. The ones we are talking about, make their own worlds. Poets, artists, readers, different. They’re not merely twisted, they’re different. They don’t paint new colours on the canvas they’re given, they discard it entirely and paint their own little world.

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This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

It is always intriguing, to talk to people and learn of their perspectives.

Perhaps this very understanding of the world has led me to my little fame, as a wonderful raconteur.

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People say that the night, with its twinkling stars, is beautiful. I personally prefer the sunny, summer day, with the chirping of bugs and the haze of heat, the splashes of cold water in the countryside and the shade of the tree. How marvellous it is to laze in the shade of such a marvellous day.

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   It was one such day, that I met them. In the summer, under the shade of the oak tree, I met two children, one full of smiles and wonder, the other of sadness and longing. The boy was so small, and yet, he was sad. There was no spark in his eyes, except when he looked at her, the girl. Her movements gave him life. It was intriguing, watching them. So, I let them come close to me.

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Their faces were like fragments of a memory, a memory too far away. One of regrets and the bitter snowflake.

I made a mistake then and there, when they stopped in front of me, beside a journal and a canvas, panting.

   They nudged at each other, both silently asking the other to start. Until the boy spoke, in a voice filled with apathy, such a contrast for one so young, “We heard you’re a raco-racont-”

“Raconteur, yes.”

  I remember still, how his little face scrunched up, in barely visible disdain, “Yeah, yeah. You tell stories. Tell one for her.”

“Alex! Be polite!” The girl had interrupted then, and turned towards me, “Sorry mister, he’s an idiot. What he wanted to say, is if you could tell us a story?”

I had been ready then, to refuse and continue my little tirade of thoughts, of colours and perspectives, and of stories that enthralled me.

Sometimes all I seem capable of are mistakes.

I made another one that day, in front of a boy who had seen too much and a girl who had yet to see the world. You may call me a fool, to give in so easily, and you’d be right. But against such hope, could you too, have resisted?

“I can, of course.”

I gave in. I smiled, and opened my journal, to choose a story they’d listen to. They argued, for a long time. Until, in a moment of miracle, their fingers met, on one title.

“This one,” they had both said, together.

“This is a long one, it will take days to complete, are you sure you can wait until then?”

“Yes,” they had said, with such conviction. It was such a fabulous tale, really, that one. It was much more than a mere story. Indeed, much more

And so, that day, I began, reciting the tale that would take us a few weeks, the summer and some apples to get through-

“The Lore of Tranquility.”