Colors

 I have a lot of trouble with drawing, sometimes. Specifically people, people I know. It's not because I can't draw, but simply because I can't remember, because I never learned in the first place. When I see people, I see their personalities. Not litteraly, of course, but It's more like I ignore what my eyes are telling to me and listen to their voice, their subtle manerisms and the shifting of their eyes, the half-imagined silences behind their words; and I see colors.
  My mother is red and orange and grey. The red and orange are like sparks of a fire, sharp and ambitious; kind and warm, or aggressive and painful. The gray is only seen sometimes. It is a stifling, suffocating color, like a raincloud settling on your chest, leaving your head clear to the agony, the torment, the ignorance of humanity usually blocked out by the clouds of society about one's head. Thankfully, my mother has only a very little bit of gray.
  My father is a blue pale-grey, but only when he's working. Otherwise he's yellow and red. Not orange, but yellow and red; a mix of gentle ambition, happiness, playfulness in the red and the soft, sweet, calm joy of yellow.
 I am different. I am green and grey, purple and blue on the inside, thick and swirling and questioning colors, always questioning; observing and analyzing and reasoning. I am pensive and thoughtful, analytical, and a bit sad. But on the outside I am orange and even pink. I am irrationally optimistic, happy and joyful; like my mom's fire, orange fire. I am also, sometimes, feminine and fluttery and ridiculous, and pink. I hate pink. Sometimes my greys and greens show through, and when they do, I re-tape the fraying edges of my canvas and keep going, keep painting, keep changing.
  This is how I see the world. I see shades of personality, outer cores and inner cores like sickly sweet layered candies. I see past clothes and skin and bone and blood, ignoring the world around me until I see color, only color.