To Paint the World in Colour

For the person who I knew for three days and opened my eyes to the world.

"Perhaps it would be better for me to turn in,"

"What a pity then, we only just met," you said.

I turned around to meet your dark figure. You were always taller than me since we first met. You waltzed across the rooftops like a ballet dancer, gently sending pebbles off the roof. You took a seat next to me.

"It is one in the morning...should you not be asleep?"

"Says the one looking like a medieval ranger," I answered.

In this era, most would have been insulted by my remark as apparently fashion was very important to them. However, the corner of your lips twitched up slightly. It was minuscule but it was there.

"You're honest, I like that," you said.

"Flattery will get you nowhere," I scowled.

"And harsh,"

We sat there in silence. The stars gazed down upon us against the midnight blue canvas. It always made me wondered why the stars are so beautiful at night. What made them so intriguing to some but to others not? I could not understand.

"Curiouser," you quoted softly.

"What is?" I asked.

"A normal person would have moved away from me as we are nothing but strangers,"

"We will not be strangers; my name is Grace," I introduced myself.

"Grace..." you tested my name on your tongue. ;"Grace means God's favour....no it does not suit you,"

I blinked owlishly at your respond.

"So what nickname will you give me?"

"Nickname? No, you will have a new name. To others they may call you Grace but to me, I will call you Sidra," you replied

I raised an eyebrow at you. If we were in a different circumstance, I would have left you on the spot. However, the idea of humouring you seemed more appealing currently.

"And what is your name if we are to move on from being mere strangers?" I asked.

"I keep changing my name whenever I think it suits me, for today I think I am Thurston,"

I nodded my head in understanding. I would have said that is stupid but...humouring you seems like a better choice. Silence fell upon us again. However, this one was different; there was no awkward tension nor any frightening silence rather it was one of warmth and comfort.

"You are thinking very hard," you commented. ;"What are you thinking?

"Meaning of life," I stated bluntly.

You clicked your tongue in both amusement and a hint of annoyance.

"Are you not curious?" I asked.

"Curious? Yes, I am but, I see no reason to think about it too often,"

"Why not? Everything must have a reason and meaning to exist otherwise it does not make sense,"

"Yes...that is true." you began slowly. ;"Tell me, would that change anything? Would it change life itself? Would life become better or worse?"

I thought for a moment. I shook my head slowly.

"Exactly...life is something that you perceive not to be there for a reason. It is not like a heart that gives us life nor a brain that gives us thoughts. Its meaning is created by us not to have a fix meaning to begin with,"

"Then what is your idea of life?" I asked.

You tilted your head in deep thought.

"I do not think about it. Rather, I am grateful for it. To be alive is such a gift. To feel the warmth of the sun and coldness of the wind. To be able to move around and talk with others. Only a being with life can have such privilege. People should stop thinking too much about such trivia matters," You answered.

"Are you not thinking about it right now?"

"Yes...but that is because you asked me," you grinned.

I frowned slightly, not used to the witty remarks that you tossed. However, I found it entertaining enough to smother my disdain. I looked at the watch, it was almost six in the morning.

"You should turn in Sidra as I should as well," you commented.

"Will I see you tomorrow?" I asked.

"If you wish," you chuckled.

With that we both bid each other farewell. When I went to bed, your words echo in my mind. I tried to figure out what they meant...why would you say that but to no avail. Yet another question came to my mind: why did I want to see you again? That question flickered in my mind as I fell asleep.

The next night when I slipped out of my bedroom, I found you sitting on roof, feet dangling off the edge. You looked at me with bright amber eyes and that very same smile on your face.

"Good morning Sidra. Another sleepless night?" You asked.

"Perhaps Thurston," I answered.

"Giving me the middle of the road answer? That's okay...it is nice not to take sides," you chuckled.

I grunted and raised an eyebrow at your responds. They were both logical and appeared childish at the same time. My mind could not process that somehow. Waving that thought aside, my eyes landed on the book in your hand. I could make out scribblings of cursive words under the pale moonlight.

"A diary?" I asked.

"In a way; this is where I do my writings," you explained.

"You mean like thesis statements?"

"What no!" You quickly said, looking at me like I sprouted a second head. ;"I write fictional stories and poetry,"

At that, my lips fell into a frown. You looked at me with a rather peculiar look on your face.

"Tell me, have you created something?" You asked.

"I have made a tiny mushroom cloud out of hydrogen peroxide, soap and potassium iodide,"

You muttered under your breath.

"As in arts; have you draw or write something fictional or even compose a musical piece?" You asked once more.

I chose to remain silent.

"Come Sidra, let me show you how to write,"

"I already know how to write Thurston. I am not a child," I protested.

"Not that way; I meant in the artistic manner,"

I sighed in annoyance but scooted closer. You took out a pen from your pocket and handed it to me. I stared at the pen in question as I took it from you.

"Go on, write," you gestured.

"Write what!?" I argued.

"Anything," you grinned.

"Anything?"

"Anything! Just write whatever comes into your mind! And don't cancel it out! I want to see it!"

A maniac light shone brightly in those amber pools of yours like a light bulb in a dark night. Your lips twisted into a wolfish grin. I don't know what made me followed your instructions as I would had thrown that pen at your face. Perhaps it was the glow of excitement in your eyes or the fact you are excited of my first-time creations. Whatever it was, obsidian ink touched paper and words begin to form.

I don't know what I have written that night but I still cringe and laugh when I reread it. Your reaction was something that I can never forget.

"Not bad...but I am worried about your pessimistic outlook,"

I grunted as I look away from my horrendous piece of work you called a poem, clearly embarrassed. 

"Now, now, no need to be ashamed of it. This art is a small piece of your mind. It is a small talent that we can nurture it,"

You gently plucked the pen out of my hand and begin to write in the book of yours. I watched as words slowly formed at your command.

"I don't understand, Thurston. Are words not meant for giving knowledge?"

"You are not wrong, Sidra. You are also not right as well. Art can come in different forms. Writing is one of them. Writing is one of the most powerful things in my opinion. To be able to write is to be able create new things. We write to take notes and learn about our discovery or to weave a new world that can only exist in our mind,"

You gently tapped my head.

"When we write, we can communicate our thoughts and feelings in a more physical way because we can see the flow of thoughts form. With that, we can pass it on and spread it. I find speaking difficult sometimes; writing sometimes makes more sense and reveal more about the human mind," you smiled.

"Then again...that is my opinion,"

You looked up to the stars and shook your head. With a small smile plastered on your lips, you turned back to me.

"Come, let's continue writing,"

We spent that whole morning blotching ink on paper, turning our thoughts into physical characters and beings.

After that, I found myself writing more and more, creating some fictional beings and weaving a new world of my own out of words that went against the logic of reality. At first, I found it disturbing but then, I found myself settling in comfortably.

One night, I heard something coming from my bedroom window. Music filled the air without effort, like the waves filling holes in beach sand; the sound rushing in and around my ears. The notes swam through my cerebral cortex like a wakeful dream, easing my mind and soul. I followed the music out of my window to find you as the source of it.

You were there again, legs dangling off the edge of the roof. Your amber eyes were closed shut as your finger danced across silvery strings of the zither along with the soft tune. Somehow, you sensed my presence and your fingers stopped.

"Good morning, Sidra. Lovely morning for music, no?" You greeted with that same grin of yours.

"I don't know; I've never played an instrument," I answered.

"Let's change that shall we?" You chuckled.

You grabbed my hand and gently guided them towards the strings. The first few notes came out awkwardly as they made no sense. After a few experimental plucks, music filled the night air without effort. I allowed the river of gentle melody flow through me. You joined in as well, filling each empty space with ornaments and harmony.

Every fibre of my body relaxed at every note. Something about the vibrations of each strings felt so heavenly as if liquid energy seeped through my skin. All my troubles were washed away and I felt rejuvenated. However, everything must come to an end. The music slowly came to a sweet simple ending. You gave me a round of applause.

My mouth was tugged into a deep smile for the first time in ages.

Suddenly, there was a gust of cold wind. I shivered at the wind's chilling breath. You pulled me close and wrapped your cloak around me. I can see why you wear it. The cloak was soft and thin yet it was warm like the sun, protecting you from the wind's bite.

"Tell me, Sidra. Why have you never learnt an art? You have talent," You asked.

"I didn't see a reason to," I answered, plucking the strings idly.

You shook your head at my answer.

"Art is different than science. Art is a way to express your emotions. Its reason is created by us not set. There is no need to have a reason to learn art... you only need to enjoy it. It is not like science which teaches us why we need lungs to breathe or why the sun keeps on shining. Science sets the base colours of the world. It is black, white and grey. Science is fixed. Art can be change and it all depends on the person's perspective," you explained.

You sighed in bliss as you look up the stars.

"It is the same thing as life. Life is a blank canvas and we are the artists who fill these blank spaces with our actions in life. Life depends on the person. Do they wish to paint it with joy? Or do they wish to paint it with sadness? Perhaps a little bit of both," you gestured.

"Then, tell me why pain and death exist?" I asked.

Something then flashed within those golden pools of yours. I couldn't place it.

A bittersweet smile spread on yours lips.

"You are a woman of science. What happens when we cannot feel physical pain?"

"We cannot tell if our body is broken or there is something wrong," I answered automatically.

You smile and nodded at my answer.

"Same thing with life. Without pain, we are not prepared for the obstacles that lies ahead. Pain teaches us to be true to ourselves not to lead us to suffering. Without it, we are not living life. It is the same with others. Without sadness, happiness cannot exist for happiness sometimes rely on empathy which sadness can only bring. Without one or the other, can the other exist?"

I shook my head.

"Death is another one as well. Can you imagine in a world of immortality? Without death, the world will be overpopulated and all of us will suffer, nothing can end our suffering. Never fear death, rather accept it. Death can teach us many things and one of them is to live. We all know the ending of our story; we will grow old and turn to dust, returning back to the elements which we were created from. Death teaches us to live life to the fullest while we can,"

The same bitter-sweet smile spread on your lips.

"So many people always wish to avoid death. Why can't they see the problems with immortality? If death is a person, I want to be his friend and not fear him. Sidra, can you remember this for me?"

"Thurston?"

"Never fear death, accept it as your life. Live because you know it and you can make your ending worth. Paint the world not the colours of the rainbow but your own. Can you do that?"

I did not know what to say but I came to a conclusion.

Yes

That night, we slept under the stars.

The next night was a night that will forever change my life. You did not come out from your room at our usual time. I thought that you were held up by something and so I waited. However, my patience thinned and curiosity got hold of me. I went and broke into your room that night.

It was then I learnt that you didn't stay in an actual bedroom; rather, you turn the attic into a sanctuary. Yet, there was no sign of you. I scanned around the dark room. Then, I found a note that sat on your desk. Under the moonlight, I saw cursive writing with my name signed at the top. Obviously, I picked it up and read it.

My heart dropped when I read those dreaded words.

'By the time you read this I will be long gone...'

No... It can't be...

You couldn't have just moved away from our neighbourhood; there was still a shimmer of orange light beneath the trapdoor. Suddenly, the sound of wood creaking under feet reached my ears. My blood turned cold all of the sudden as fear fogged up my already confused mind.

A young girl no older than 21 came out from the trap door.

I braced myself for her to yell for the police, ready to run out of the window back into the safety of my house. Instead, she stared at me with those amber eyes.

The same amber ones you possessed.

Those golden pools were filled with anguish as if all light has been drained from them. Red danced slightly across the rim of the eyes. They almost look glossy as if they have been crying a lot.

"You're Sidra, isn't it?" Your sister asked in a choked sob.

"That's what I am known to your brother; my real name is Grace,"

"You're looking for Thurston, isn't it?"

"...Yes," I swallowed a lump.

"You won't find him in this world anymore,"

I swore time slowed down when those feared words reached my ears. Breath caught in throat as knees gave way as I fell to the wooden floor with a thud. So many questions ran through my mind: Why didn't you tell me? Why did you put a fake smile on your face? Just why?

But more importantly, why am I so affected by the death of a stranger who only spent 6 hours and 7 seconds with me? Why am I affected by a stranger who followed me through my sleepless slumber? What is it about you that impacted me enough that your death would affect me?

I couldn't comprehend the facts. Your sister stood beside me, offering comfort. The idea of you long gone from this world boiled me in a world of new pain that I could not explain. I was detached from reality, unable to speak, standing there struck dumb.

Next night, I went to visit your grave. At the sight of the grey rock etched with your name on it that's when the floodgates broke. Stinging tears blurred my vision as I cried upon your grave. I didn't know what to do. Should I have cursed your name for not telling me? Or should I have mourned for your death?

Perhaps I had done both for that was a night that I cannot forget but yet I cannot explain. It felt like being thrown in boiling acid, burning every inch of skin and emotion out of you. A feeling that I never wish to feel again.

But...then I remembered your words. Perhaps your death is one of the pains that I will suffer in my life. However, I still wonder whether I could have prevented your death. Would preventing your death would made a change in my life? Should I have ignored you and went back into my room on that night?

But that was not living as you said. Without pain...life is meaningless. Things cannot exist without the other. One cannot experience true happiness without sadness as sadness brings in empathy. Without pain...one cannot truly live. As Lord Tennyson once said: "it is better to be loved and lost than never to be loved at all."

Sometimes, I think about the nights we had together. Should I destroy my memories with you? Should I forget the skills you taught me? Then, I think about it again. Why should I destroy a piece of myself? You have moulded me into shape. You have become a part of my history; a fallen chess piece that played an important role on the board. To destroy you, is to destroy a piece of myself.

Then, I thought again: should I thank you for helping me? Or should I hate you for leaving me? It took me awhile to come to a conclusion but the hours of patience that you taught me helped.

There are times I wondered what was it between us. We cannot be just be acquaintances as your death affected me but neither we are considered friends. Perhaps semi friends would be a better term.

Here I am in your sanctuary that I have been given as stated in your letter, setting my feelings and memories down in ink from the skills you taught me, I finally came to a conclusion.

Without you, I am a pessimistic fool in my life. A fool that is ungrateful for being alive who broods too much about reasons and meaning. The one who relies too much on science and forgets about the arts that colours the world. Without you, I fear life.

Here I am to say a thousand thanks for pulling me out from this dark world. To thank you for opening my eyes to the reality of the world. To see the world not in black or white or grey but in colours. To paint the world with my own colours. To live my life to fullness.

We may have not known each other enough to have a strong bond but you have indeed impacted my life. Perhaps, in another time or life, we will meet again and have many different adventures. To this, I wait for that time.

Thank you for being here, my friend.