What is it like?

This is home.

It rose from the floor in great piles, sinking and bubbling onto the concrete ground. It radiated colour it's flamboyant sectors splashing everywhere leaving stains on the plain,boring sidewalk.I oh so desperately wanted to touch it but in doing that, I was scared I wouldn't get my hand back. Neon yellows, green, blue, pink all twisted into each other, marbling into a messy crockpot of colour. It was so pretty, I needed touch it, I stepped into it sinking slowly into its soft grasp - it felt safe, it's home right here. It was like slipping through butter. I fell asleep, pictures of fairytale lands projcting through my racing mind slowly clogging it until it spun slowly like a film reel, each picture clicking past at a steady rhythm. Everything was there my  love, life, reality, imagination. Each photo  lined with memories. Until it went black white noise engulfing everything, cold concrete and a dull existence.
Reality.
I wasn't someone or something - I was nothing. Watching millions of colours sliding their way through city circuits romancing every human they came across untill glory was in the pitiful humans eyes. They were so small, so pretty yet so simple. They didn't want or desire anything they just went off needs, not allowing complications to sway their purpose. I wished I was a colour.
Life isn't simple, there's always someone who complicates it with a taste of what you ever so greatly desire. You trust them with everything you have in a desperate trade for them to give you the thing only they can give. The problem with this is, people can leave. They can take your everything in return for nothing. That taste of paradise is never as sweet as you expect. The excitement you feel imagining something is so much greater than when it actually happens.
What I want is a new life, not just for me but for everyone. Its a sweet world where trees grow  taller than the sky and plants dominate the land and there's nothing you can do aboit it. Everyone forgets what they want and lives of what they need, lending kind words to those who are sad, trails of music float through the air yet, you can smell it, each cord something new yet so old. You want to eat it whole, pull it so far into your soul that no one will ever be able to see it but you.
In the end, you do desire. It can't be helped.
You come to love things, people. It drives you crazy until there's nothing you can do but wallow in the pain.sometimes it works out, sparks of colour and a red string intertwines you both, loving for life.
Sometimes it's black. You fall back into a bottomless pit. And when you finally reach "the bottom" it starts falling again. Twisting until you and the dark are one sloppy pile of passion.
It's not something you learn. It's something that's there from the start to the Finnish. The sickness that we call love.
Some people love with all their hearts a million times and get them broken nine hundreds and ninety nine thousand times. Others endlessly, without counting. Pouring years of themselves into one person, just to lose it . It's like scribbling over paper just to make it black, when you could just as easily buy black paper. But no, it requires effort and time to love. Once we leave something we loved behind we age. Our insides loose something that...we will never get back.
Sometimes, you love someone so much that you can't forget. Given the chance you will always run right back to them. Break my heart again, please!
Maybe the pain is addictive,we let it into every fracture of our hearts, we let it grow and manifest into something we can't even control anymore. the pain that was once brought about from impossible love morphs into the debilitating pain of self hatred and even shame , we long for them to come back because we love them but we know that longing is wrong; Oh how they hurt you so much, how can you still love them? it's shameful. but its still there.