I was alone, utterly and totally alone. There was no sound, and no thoughts. There was only peace and solitude. I was alone and at the same time I was one of many pin-points of light hovering in this state of non-existing oblivion. I was there and I wasn’t there. I was isolated from these other pin-points hardly understanding why I could see them, but never get close enough to touch them.

When I tried too hard to reach these pin-points of brilliant white light my colors would come; my brilliant, vibrant, shimmering colors. They swirled when I raised a solid, invisible, hand to move them around. They crept over my fingers when I touched them, and kissed their way along my hand before evaporating into the air only to be replaced by a new set. They were enough to distract me from the pin-points of light that shone much brighter then they. The color blue in itself had the power to hold me for hours, years, in dreamy awe. It was so pure blue, so purely blue, the darkest depths of it hinted at all the other colors it could become.

When I had first tried desperately to reach the pin-points of lights in a pained daze, the likes of which I can not quite remember, the colors surrounded me and loved me. They bathed me in their light, and imaginary heat, and so easily made me fall in love. I spent hours, years, teasing them, playing with them, loving them, worshipping them, wishing I were them. I was alone, but I was happy, so happy alone with my colors. I was at peace I had never felt. I forgot about everything else, things I needed to remember, and I only remembered the colors. It only mattered that I controlled the colors, and in this silent abyss of oblivion I was the master. Controlling the colors made me Master.

I was never fully aware of how long I stayed with my colors. When they were around I had no needed to track the passage of time. When they left, I yearned for them, or the ability to reach other lights, that each hour, years, trickled past unheeded. The only thing that could have hinted me at how long I had stayed suspended with them, and even then only if I had the want to pay attention to it, was the detached feeling of there being two of me. I never knew, at the beginning, that it was the colors doing this too me, poisoning me from myself. I was slowly becoming two; One who loved and controlled the colors, and One who hated the colors. I knew that part of me filled with hate --it only surfaced the moment the colors were gone, and not a second sooner-- was the important part of me. I knew I shouldn’t forget him, but I slowly was. I was loosing my grip on him, and his importance. His hatred of the colors scared me, and I tried to flee when he was near. The colors, however, remained between us as an ashen thread forever connecting love and hate.

The colors in all their glory damned me. I was the master, yet I was a prisoner. I was lost in disillusionment and confusion because of the colors and I did not care. They loved me, and I loved them.

It felt like forever, seconds, when something changed in my world, and the colors suddenly lost their all consuming importance. It happened so fast that afterwards I was still reeling, and unable to comprehend. This change, like so many things, were centered around the colors. I was playing with them, the greens I had loved the most, huddled in a corner, trying to ignore the hatred the other me blazed in my direction. Between us, a barrier of blacks and grays, protected me and for the moment I was content. She came then, with my back turned so.

The other me, the important me, knew who she was and gloried in her appearance. The blazing hatred changed to a thankful wave, and hopeful prayer. At this sudden change of emotion, my head snapped up and I turned around. Peering over my shoulder I saw her through a haze of blacks and grays and for a passing second I was curious. The greens shimmered, and I was lost. I ignored her, and played with my colors, and without knowing her, I knew she wasn’t pleased.

All I wanted to do was play, and she wished for none of it. I wanted my colors, but once they noticed her appearance, they left me in waves. Each color that left me to go to her broke my heart a little more. The colors were enamored of her. They left me and circled around her in a frenzied dance; They danced if they were long lost loves finally reunited. I was embittered and heartbroken at this theft of my beloved colors. The other me, the important me, found please in my displeasure. He saw each fleeing color as a triumph over something I could not grasp. I watched my colors dance around her and I was jealous.

My colors never moved for me, I was the one who had to move them with a wave of my hand. It was I who had to engage them but her, however, did nothing. This intruder in my world of colors seemed oblivious of them as they entangled themselves in her glossy sable hair. The pinks and reds caressed her porcelain cheeks in soft, feather light kisses. They pulsated with their love and obedience to her. I knew my colors loved her more then they had ever loved me. They were no longer mine, and I slowly began to mourn the loss of them.

“ Beautiful, are they not?” Her voice stunned and enraptured me. The sound of her voice was rich and textured, I saw it more then I had heard it. When she spoke it was in a tide of purple and greens. They danced from her mouth as if she had breathed them, and they came to curl in front of me before they vanished. She held me captive and I understood it was she who had created the colors, and for a moment, had given them to me. I loved her then upon this Epiphany and wanted her to speak more. When she did nothing more then watch me in silence once again, it was I who spoke out loud, my voice rusty with disuse-use.

“ I’ve never seen anything like them before.” I whispered softly as my voice rose and broke as if I had never spoken before. It took effort to make these sounds, and with in moments I wanted to sleep, and drift off. Too consumed by her, I did not notice the lack of colors when I spoke. My words rang with truth I had never seen colors such as these. Before, in a time I did not yet understand as the Before, I had taken my little loves for granted. In the Before their shades were dull and did not generate the warmth, and love I felt.

She smiled at me then and my heart broke all over again. I loved her, oh how I ached for her love! She didn’t love me, I knew that, but she had come to me anyways. The colors finally stopped their frenzied dance to rest around her head in a shimmering, rainbow crown. She was beautiful; she was everything that surrounded me. Her eyes were the darkest green that the depths of them looked black. It trailed off into such blackness I had no doubt that time, and all existence would cease if I ever got to the bottom of them.

“ Colors are only what you make them,” she raised her hand palm facing upwards, “ Everything is what you make it.” She blew gently onto her palm then, in a swirl of purest pink. Wide eyed, I leaned closer feeling the heat of the light tickle against my cheek. Both parts of myself watched as the pink hued light increased and multiplied until it had formed the petals of a rose. The colors had given up their beautiful existence to become a flower for her.

“ Life is something that you alone have the power to control.” The purple and greens of her voice swirled around and stroked my hair. The other me, the important me watched her and nodded. He knew what she meant, and  I did not. I began to yearn to understand her as he did. I tore my eyes from the flower in her palm to look at her face. She watched me with eternal patience. She knew I did not understand. She wanted me to understand --- she needed me to understand. The other me, the important me, stepped forward and cleared his throat. Immediately the darker colors that wrapped themselves around her ankles like chains leapt forward to embrace him. He gave then no heed, and for the first time I felt angered. My colors were not to be ignored, yet he did just that.

Dark colors danced around his coppery auburn hair, they shined in his violet blue eyes. He was I, but I hated him for not loving as I did.

“ That rose is beautiful, but beauty does not stop death.” His voice, a swirl of silver and blue, echoed around us. I turned slowly to look at him fully, my anger dissolving into a curious fear. This was the first time he had outwardly spoken to me and I was deeply afraid of the unknown meaning in his words.

“ Even Death can be what you make it.” He continued in his low, sensuous voice. He placed his hand over the glowing rose, and after several long seconds, he removed it again. “ Death is just another step needed to be taken.” The rose, in all its glory, was wilted and marked with a red dark enough to look black. Before my eyes several petals broke off and fluttered to the ground. The colors of his voice died away only to be replaced by the comforting ones of her voice.

“ Death makes way for new life,” she gestured with a fragile hand at the ground, “ It is the way nature works.” My eyes followed her hand to the fallen petals. They embedded themselves into the ground of oblivion and tender new shoots sprang upwards. I looked at both of them, straining to understand their meaning. He watched me with contempt. She watched me in pity laced with love.

“ Why must things die?” My voice croaked and held no color. All color had left me, and until this moment I had not noticed. The lack of color in me felt like death, and the smallest prick of understand buried into my mind.

The other me, the important me, looked at her with deep concern concealed within his hate, and looked as if to speak. I knew he wanted to speak more to me, to make me understand, but she stopped him with a slight shake of her head. Only the small movement of her sable hair alerted me to her part of the exchange of silent words.

“ Issaiah,” she turned towards the other me, “ This is something you can not answer for him.” Even though her voice was soft, his eyes burned deep with anger. He was being dismissed, and it made him angry.

“ As you wish.” And the silver and blue that he was ceased to be. It was only she and I. She stepped closer to me, brining the traitorous colors closer. I turned my attention to them, even though I wished to turn away and cry for their lose. I wanted them back. I reached out my hand knowing they would never return to me.

“ You need to elevate yourself out of this prison of yours,” she gave an amused smile, “ As delightful as it might be, it is still a prison.” Before I could answer and protest what she had said the colors once again worked their magic and damned me into silence. They swirled around her one last time until they began dripping between us and formed a circle. They became a swirling abyss and I feared with understanding after this point, they would be no more. She dipped her slender finger into the middle of it and they ceased to swirl. Giving one last glorified flash of bright, shimmering colors they died and became like the surface of a mirror.

“ What’s this?” I whispered leaning forward in hopes of still seeing the last evidence of what my colors, my beautiful colors, once were on the reflecting surface.

“ Look and tell me, what do you see?” Her voice was soft and colorless. It was the first time, in my mind, I had heard someone speak without the aid of colors and it pushed away at the barrier of confusion blanketing my mind. Blinking slowly, I leaned close into the mirror. Its surface rippled light as if the wind, or my breath, had touched upon its surface. The rippling stopped and I was curious. I saw my reflection, then I saw nothing, and everything. It was a vast emptiness filled with all the things I knew I had done, but could never remember. It was that emptiness, that vast, cold, loveless emptiness reflected back at me that sent me fleeing from the mirrors grasp.

“ What did you see?” Her question became more demanding, more important.

“ Nothing, I saw nothing.” I had lied. I had spoke the truth. With a wave of her hand the mirror dissolved, and she gave me a sad, sad smile.

“ I want to tell you a story, would you listen?” I ignored her at first. I was filled with the sudden urge to run from her -- too push her away and be done. When she did not leave upon my silence, and it drew out between us like a sharp edge of disappointment, I finally spoke.

“ What kind of story?”

“ A story of a beginning,” was her simple reply, “ Would you listen to the entire story, and understand?” Her questions, and request confused me. I nodded in response. If I let her speak to me, to tell me a story, maybe my colors would return, and I could be blissfully happy once again.