Color Clouds


I have this image in my head of an imaginary world where all I see are color clouds. Moved by motion, sound, energy and feeling, they are our auras, and make our world beautiful. My life exists there, as I turn everyday events into magic.

In this world, I live in imagery and bliss, and my mind is wild. These clouds only come from life and the living. They glow like beauteous, vibrant, lights in pigments unimaginable to the human eye. And every day it makes me cry, because pain and happiness are visible. They can be seen by everyone, and there is nothing to hide behind.

I take in each color like my own emotion, and I have been complexed by them for my entire life. I can’t help these people, yet I visibly see their sadness, and I can’t share their joy. I watch an ant pulsate an ocean blue, only to watch the light go out as someone steps on it. Or I see a butterfly hatching from it’s cocoon with a cloudy purple glow. Sometimes I get it. I understand what the colors mean, and other times I’m not sure at all. But they exist, and they mesmerize me. Some creatures shine brighter and are stronger, while other clouds hardly exist. But in any moment, they can change.

The other day, I was in New York, in central park, and I heard street performers under a bridge. Before even coming close to it, I could see a soft pink glow emanating from the inside of the tunnel. Even then, I could tell it was strong. They were playing violins and when they opened their mouths, gold came out. And nothing was more beautiful than the mixture of the sound and the sight. I had never heard a more stunning voice in my life. I witnessed gold, and I cried like a child. People playing music kills me, it produces the most complex color cloud you’ve ever seen. It’s addicting because the colors dance.

Stress is the most visible. Red, red, red. The nervous tapping of someone’s foot will vibrate the color. Dark infuriating red, when a stiff man walks out of his bosses office, and a cool soft blue when he walks home after an exhausting day. If those blues turn gray, you can only offer your sympathy and suffer with them. For any gray is a suffering soul, and if you offer a smile, you might be able to bring some of the richness back into that cloud. Those smiles are the game-changers. Strangers, they are always given by strangers, to give the blues some yellows and help them to move their days along, without too much effort from the suffering. They simply receive them, and I watch their color get a little bit stronger, and a little bit brighter.

I watch masterpieces come to life, as the world now actually seems like a canvas. My colors are messy, but true, and I hope this world lives with me forever, because to see what I could see would be believing in magic.

Guide that inspired this poem: 


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