Colors
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You look around yourself, and there is nothing but white.

Suddenly, you see color. You realize it's the first you've ever seen. It's brown. Instinctively, you know the color. It's the rich red-brown of clay soil. It spreads out below you like a carpet. It's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, and you feel you could stare at it forever.

Suddenly, another color catches your eye. Blue. The beautiful blue of your mother's eyes (who you've never seen). It spreads out above the brown like a tarp hung above you. Bits of white remain here and there in little whisps and whorls. You hold your breath (and only now do you realize that you are breathing, and you can't remember if you've ever breathed before).

Another color, green, sprouting in little spikes from the brown beneath. Grass, something tells you. An ashy gray sort of brown rises up like a column, with bunches of spade-shaped pieces of darker green popping out of arms reaching up toward the blue.

A bright yellow-white ball appears in the blue, and you feel warmth for the first time, and you feel a contrast with the cool green beneath your feet. Sun and grass. This is right, but you're not sure why.

More colors. Brilliant reds and yellows rise from little green stalks, or float in the air around you on delicate wings. The soft yellow of an old friend sits next to you, tail raised, pink tongue hanging out to taste the air.

You know without seeing that you have your own colors. The dark brown of your skin and the black of your hair, the white of your eyes. The green of your dress.

For a long moment, everything remains frozen, like a painting. Then you feel the air start to move. The butterflies flutter by, the grass waves, and your dog looks up at you and whines. You step into the moment. As you do, you forget the pure white, the creation of the scene. You only remember the moment, the moments that led up to it (even as they never happened), and the hopes of the moments that may come.

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