Unattainable

Price

Price

This is a world in which society is banned from all colour because colour causes thought. The leaders wanted everyone to be equal, so everyone must wear white as a sign of their fake perfection. The leaders didn't like the way people tried to evolve or change, and so they got rid of 'inspiration' so nobody could think of anything new.

But what the leaders are blind to is not the fact that the civilians hate the decolourisation, but the fact that white makes every single scar, blemish and fault stand out even more. But for the time being, colour is out and bleach is in...

The drab buildings, once filled with colour and complexity, now stood limply on the foundation of concrete, barely holding up the despair heavily weighing upon them.

They were simple reminders of a life that was bland and insipid, lacking everything that made life worth surviving. Laughter once filled the halls, singing would press against the empty space until every corner was filled with us.

Now, more than ever, the void is growing, looming in every nook and cranny, threatening to spill over the borders of the city.

No inch of the tall structures go untouched without the deathly promise of silence. The gloom is wiping away any colour we once had in our lives. The buildings; every configuration, every home, is white. Not grey; grey means something; grey means hope as opposed to the obscurity of black, the colourlessness of black.

White, on the other hand is nothing. It is a colourless yet blinding realisation that this is actually happening to us. White can be stained and soiled and scarred. Every blemish is visible against white; every imperfection stands out with such obvious ambition.

I yearn to lean out the window on the top floor and pour a bucket of paint over the side of the building, splashing the white walls and the white cement and the white people. If you looked closely enough, you could almost see the faded colours on the building; memories that could never be washed away with bleach.

One half of the building is a faded, barely-there range of yellow, orange, red; a permanent autumn to remind us to let out our hair and dance in the wind. Now all it stands for is the leaves falling, curling up and dying; a dizzying sensation that death is coming.

The other half of every building was filled with violets and blues and greens, meeting yellow in the middle. It was a winter; a sweet awareness of the unbearable summer nights we would spend lying on the roof, trying to catch a breeze in hopes of cooling down, pouring ice cubes down each other's shirts.

There would be a high price to pay if anyone were to know it was I who coloured the white walls, if they knew it was I who dared rebel against such 'perfection'. It would make them think; make them remember. The colour would bring back the days of old; the courage they held. But maybe that's just what we needed; a harsh splash of colour on the white-washed walls of society.