Green is the Color of Thought

Green is the color of thought.

I don't remember why it's always been that way. It just has. My mother says that when I was learning my colors, I always stopped on it to think about it before I said the name. My brother thinks it's because no one in the family can put green in an outfit because no one likes how it looks. I don't think my dad came up with a reason for it; I can't really ask him anymore, since he's never home when in a good mood, and no one likes talking to him when he's in a bad mood.

My opinion? It's because my thinking place is green.

Well, it isn't really my thinking place, as I don't own it. Nature does. There's this creek in my neighborhood you can find, and if you follow it to the west until it doesn't even look like a creek, you can find it. It's on the other side of the ivory wall and around that short, fat tree that all of these bunnies live in. Then you get there. Tada! Thinking place!

It's a little pond that looks like the water is fake. Some days it's completely clear and you can see the fish swimming around. You also can't look at it for too long since the sun reflects right off of it. Other days, when it's windy and the trees move over the sky, everything in that water is green. Just like everything else.

I named it my thinking place because it's quiet enough for me to process my thoughts properly. I just sit on the skinny log or the overhanging rock by the back and let my thoughts take over my very being. I can do that for hours at a time until the sun leaves the pond, which gives me enough time to get home before the moon comes out.

I think it's funny, seeing my mom scowl at me when I say that I'm leaving for the day. She doesn't even ask me where I'm going anymore, since I come home when she wants me to. My dad doesn't know I leave. Good thing, too; I'd be beaten if he knew.

The things that I think about are different each time I go. Wait, that makes it sound like I think about one thing for hours, which isn't at all true. Five to six things cycle through my mind in about fifteen minutes during the day that's how crazy my mind is. My thinking place is for taking those things and detailing them to a crazy amount. Maybe solving some issues or answering questions I've been having. It takes a little while to go through each thing and be satisfied with what I have "accomplished" before moving on.

Except for this week. Every time I've gone to the thinking place, I've cried.

Now, I'm not one that likes to cry. It happens a lot more than it should, in my opinion, but never in front of people. If I cry in front of someone, they better feel lucky. That means I care enough about them to cry. For girls, they need to be my closest companions. For guys, same thing. Maybe I might have a little more of an interest in the guy if I break down, but knowing me - a girl that doesn't understand proper love - that seems highly unlikely.

But not even the solitude of my bedroom has seen me at my worst. Only my thinking place has.

My thinking place has suffered a little bit to my destruction and depression. Some of the ivory along the trees or rocks has been ripped off, a bunch of broken sticks are scattered in the grass, and a vine I found has been securely tied to the branch of a tree that stretches right behind the pond. I didn't use it when I wanted to, but it's still there. Just in case.

What this place has seen more of, though, is me just sitting or lying down crying. Once, when I was in my old school district, I came here and cried for three weeks straight before something good happened to me. Yeah, I'm definitely not my strongest when here, but I don't regret venting here. The family of bunnies don't seem to mind, and neither do the fish, so there doesn't seem to be a problem.

It seems like my childhood issue has returned, though, as every time I've arrived at the thinking place now, I've broken down into tears. I can't even tell if everything is really green or kind of green that's how focused I am on just crying. Even the bunnies know something's wrong, because each time I've laid down in the long grasses, two or three have come over to snuggle close to me. Their way of comforting, I guess?

They couldn't reach me today, though, since I wasn't on the ground. I was up in the big tree, sitting on that thick branch that was directly over the grass behind the pond. The one with the vine still tied to it, nice and strong. After a little while of just watching it hang limp, I grabbed it and slowly pulled it all up to me. I let it rest on my shoulders like a big necklace before I placed my hands back down on the bark I was sitting on. It was heavy, and soon my shoulders started to ache. I didn't mind; I wanted it to stay there, just for a little bit longer.

Movement above me brought me out of my tearful thoughts. It was so sudden and shocking that I almost fell backwards. The fear of me falling was what kept me on that branch, clinging for life. Not today.

A long sigh later, the vine was hanging down towards the ground again.

I looked back up at the tops of the trees to try and see what scared me. I had to blink away my tears before I could even see shapes, but at that point the thing was long gone. So I just looked at the sun. It was small today and hidden behind a sea of clouds, but in little places you could still see it. The weather forecast said that it was supposed to storm tonight. I never liked storms. Or the color grey. Grey is the color of gloom, and I hated gloom. So, since it was so grey up in the sky, I lowered my head back to look at the thoughtful green.

That's when I saw it. Down in the grass, near the short tree that the bunnies live in. I could barely see what it was from where I sat in the sky, but I knew it wasn't anything normally found in nature. It was pink and white, and a perfect rectangle. Curious, I crawled on the branch until I reached the trunk of the big tree and began my descent. It was easy, as I climb trees a lot, and I knew this one like the back of my hand. It didn't even take me two minutes to get back down to the grassy ground, and it took me less time to move around the pond and run over to the object on the ground.

It was a book. Well, kind of. It didn't have a name on it, and there wasn't a picture or design on the cover. Looking at it more, the white seemed faded, enough to where it was more of a cream color now. The pink was light and delicate, and only on the binding. The pages weren't white either; more of that cream that was on the cover. I opened it to see what the book was called, but the front page was blank. So was the next page. And the next. And the next. Soon I was just letting the pages fly by as I skimmed through the whole thing. Not a single word was written anywhere in it. That's when I realized it wasn't a book at all, but a journal. Definitely a strange one, since it didn't look or feel like one, but that's what it was.

Before I knew it, I was sitting down in the grass by my bookbag. I had run here immediately after I got home from school, so I had all of my things with me. I searched through the mess that it contained and grabbed my favorite pen; it was just a black pen, but the end was larger than most, so I had to make my letters larger so the ink wouldn't blend together. It was the only way I could read my handwriting, since it was so bad. Especially my cursive, which I was just now beginning to learn so I could be 'fancy'. Comparing the end to the journal's pages, it actually seemed a little too small. The book wasn't big at all, but there was just so much room that it seemed large.

Illusions. They rock.

So I wrote. I wrote about everything on my mind. About my dad and how he was bringing home more drinks and less food, which was scaring my mom. About school, and how I was slowly becoming alone every day. About my brother, and how he was going off to college soon. About how my eyesight was getting worse, which was forcing me to get new glasses. I wrote about it all, without stopping. The pages showed stains of tears, since I had started crying again. Surprisingly, I didn't tear the papers at all like I usually do, since I flip through books so quickly that my fingers slip and rip the books up.

By the time I was done, I had to pack up and run home quickly before the moon came up. I made it inside just as the storm started. I ate food silently this time. I managed to escape to my room before my dad walked inside. I fell asleep listening to the storm instead of cringing to it. I slept all night with good dreams. And I woke up to find the book in my arms. That was how it continued, all through time. I always woke up to the book. It was a good thing to wake up to.

Soon, pink became the color of calamity, and cream became the color of imagination. Green was still the color of thought, though. Why? Because I was always going to my thinking place when I wanted to be imaginative.