IN MY COLOURLESS WORLD

In my colourless world, everything begins with silence. It is not the silence of peace, nor the silence of rest, but the silence of absence-the kind that lingers after a storm has passed, when the air is heavy with memory but stripped of sound. The skies above are pale, drained of their blues and golds, and the earth beneath my feet carries only shades of grey. Here, the horizon is not a promise but a boundary, a line that reminds me of how far I cannot go.
This world is not hostile, yet it is not kind. It is a place where longing drifts like smoke, curling into corners, refusing to vanish. Shadows stretch endlessly, not because of light but because of its lack. Each day feels like a repetition of the last, a monochrome reel where gestures are muted and emotions are distilled into outlines. Joy does not arrive in bursts of colour; sorrow does not bleed in crimson. Instead, everything is flattened into tones of ash, ivory, and charcoal.
Yet within this grayscale lies a fragile beauty. The absence of colour sharpens the edges of things. A single breath becomes monumental. A single heartbeat echoes louder than thunder. In this stripped-down existence, I learn to notice the subtleties-the way a shadow bends, the way silence hums, the way memory flickers like a candle in the wind. What others might dismiss as emptiness becomes, for me, a canvas of possibility.
In my colourless world, longing is both curse and companion. It walks beside me, whispering of what could be, reminding me of what once was. It is the ache of unspoken words, the weight of unfinished stories, the echo of laughter that no longer fills the air. But longing also keeps me alive. It is the thread that ties me to hope, the invisible ink that writes tomorrow across the blank pages of today. Without longing, this world would collapse into nothingness. With it, even the greys shimmer faintly, like silver beneath the moon.