Wern Yeen's essay

LOL my blog is going mushrooms as what people say...well don't worry!! I assure you that you won't regret after reading this post =p I'm gonna type about an essay written by Wern Yeen...Just some introduction...*ehem* Wern Yeen is a genius...abnormally smart=="....really!! She even does her nota AND chat at the same time...That's the troubling part...if I do my nota and chat at the same time, I will not understand what I'm writing...lol... Ok enough crapping xD
Fellow readers.......... allow me to present you......COLOURS!!!!


Colours

A gust of wind swept across the yard, stirring up the pile of fallen leaves that sat so quietly in a corner, that was until then. Looking on from the open window in my room, I suppressed a sigh. Another long day, I thought. The yard was flooded with sunlight, and I could have sworn that I smelled some of the leaves sizzling silently. They were dying a slow and painful death. How I wished they would just disappear into the baking hot air. That would be less torturing, both for them and also for yours truly.

I turned away and was tapped at the back by another gust of hot air. It barged into my room and stirred everything up, yet again. If it were my brother, he would have gotten it from me centuries ago. A neat stack of papers that was already turning yellow with the passing of every second finally leapt into the air from atop my dusty cupboard, feeling the sweet sensations of temporary suspension in mid-air before being pulled back into reality by gravity. I caught hold of one that headed towards me. One look, and all the memories of my unhappy childhood came flooding into my mind.

It was a cool evening, and I had a brush in my hand and a smile on my face, grinning from ear to ear as the feeling of satisfaction brimmed over in my heart. The soft caressing of my brush left tracks of pink, purple and grey on the cheeks of the wall, all mixed and blended together in harmony. But not all was at peace with one another, the trees were purple, the skies were green, the moon was pink, just the way I liked it. One last stroke on the wall, and I gazed at my work of art dreamily. If I could dream about living in that world of my own forever, I would never wake up. Just then, I heard the key turning in the lock of the front door right behind me.

“What in the world do you think you’re doing?” was all that I heard from my mother, ever since I could hold a brush and understand words. “For the last time, do not ruin the walls! What is this rubbish?” That felt the sharpest sabre in the universe, piercing through my heart. ‘Rubbish’ – it stabbed me again.

A moment later, I had to destroy a world that I had created and enjoyed creating it so much with my own hands. Hot tears flowed like rivers in my heart. I did not understand, I never did. Why would that be rubbish? Blood flowed alongside the tears from my heart now. She was my mother. How could she say that? I liked that world. A lot better than this one. So boring, mundane, humdrum, and dead. My heart bled silently.

I am eighteen years old now. A grown-up, is what they call me. I am flourishing in a world that I once loved so much. I could not grasp the meaning of my career as a sketch artist. Now, I hold pencils, not brushes anymore. My pencils only leave tracks of black, that so ironically go well with and contrast the whiteness of the papers and canvases so well. Black. And white. It is the world that I see, but not one that I feel for. How ironic. Isn’t that how everything is supposed to be? Ironic? Good, yet bad? Harmonious, yet contrasting? I look upon the ceiling every twilight before I go to bed, reminding myself of this ironic reality to keep myself going in whatever direction I am heading. For what? And no, I do not sleep at nights. Nights are for immersing myself in deep thoughts. That has become a habit for years now.

The flood of memories finally subsided. I look at the piece of ‘rubbish’ that I now hold in my hands. The trees are purple, the skies are green, the moon is pink, just the way I like it, only a lot smaller. What have I become? I have become a puppet of this real world. It has killed my passion for colours. And I will not tolerate another moment of this.

If I were to fail, I would rather fail and crumble down in my own world. My own, colourful world.

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