Yellow in the grayscale

The smokey grey curtains draping plainly against the bland white wall are blocking the brilliant beams of light. Located in the corner of the room lay a figure on a pale bed. The beeping of the alarm crescendoes, as his hand slaps down silencing the noise. He continues to lay motionless, while reminiscing of the day's events.

Routine. Program. Schedule.

The man arises from the comfort of his sheets. Walking onto the tiles, the soles of his feet numbing to the cold's first contact. The cold tiles instantly engulf the warmth of the man's sole. The icy air once again infuses itself into the man's veins, refreezing the cheerfulness from surfacing to the skin. Slow steps trudging their way until terminating at the face of the mirrored wardrobe door. Staring back is his reflection. Blank.

Gently pulling the door, his clothes, ranging from an inky-black to a chalky-white are hanging flawlessly. Slowly. Moving piece by piece. Considering one by one. Reviewing outfit by outfit. Each piece has the potential to be worn. However, one by one, rejecting them until discovering a white shirt with a slight tinge of yellow, hanging in isolation as if all gray-scaled pieces are rejecting the slightest tinge of yellow. Reaching, he feels warmth emanating. At contact, a tingle of heat sparks on the surface of his fingertips. Holding onto the shirt, heat surges through his hands. He feels a sense of nostalgia falls a small part of his memory is re-surfacing. Hope.

Holding the shirt tightly, the phoenix from within rebirths, liberating energy that surges throughout his body, thaws the Optimism that is imprisoned by his frosty nature. This newly discovered emotion is strange to him yet comfortable and fitting, like a final piece of puzzle has been placed. The complete image is clear and unclouded. He is an individual. He is distinctive in his own way. He is transformed completely.

The suffusion of the suppressed heat streams through his body, as the warmth diffuses through his soul, mind and personality. Joy. The finding was infinitesimal, yet the impact is substantial. Drawing the curtains wide, the burst of sunlight permeates through the window and into the room as the man dances and gambols underneath the scattered specks of dust until he faces the mirror. Staring back is his reflection. Grinning.

Stepping inside the familiar room, the icy air again attempts to avenge the man. Emptiness separates the ivory desks, where they work. The sound of glassware is all that he could clearly hear. There is minimal murmuring as they are all concealing their identities with a mask. The redolence of chemicals drifts through the air, invading the airway of the man.

The monochromic image of the room is copybook, perfect and ideal. The unblemished table is aesthetically set: one lamp illuminating phosphorescent, two biros filled with black & three sheets of white. As the black began to seep into the white, the man begins to drag the vessel across the alabaster-like sheet, creating a composition, like he usually does. Stroke by stroke. Sheet by sheet. Pile by pile.

One sheet left.

Instead of a pure white sheet that is free from colour, a yellowed sheet from age lay in the centre of the desk, waiting.

A defected product. Usually, it will be expected to dispose of it, yet he felt the need to keep it.

The crisp clicking of his leather loafers echoes on the surface of the pristine white tiles of the room, as he carries the pile towards the counter. The woman flicks through one by one. Reviewing sheet by sheet. The final white sheet is placed into the reviewed pile. She glances at the yellow tinged piece but quickly looks away. She scurries off with the pile, leaving the man alone.

The beams of light flowing through the window, warms the room. Finally, he is cured from the diseased cold that has caused the affliction.

Hope. Joy. Optimism.