In the depth of my childhood, on the duller of days, I would lay amidst the fringe of uncut grasslands, gazing at the cotton skies above. As the viscous winds would wash across my face like high tides, my eyes would water like the frost on warmed glaciers, trickling down the rounds of my scarlet cheeks. With each blink, my eyelashes became the bristles of pinpoint paint-brushes, stroking the canvas that hung from the high heavens. In each passing moment, the folds of grey clouds would flood with a burst of bright colours; a painting of a future so fruitful, electric and youthful.
Yet as the days turned to nights, I’d become buried beneath a blanket of opaque twilight. In the vacant hollows of my mind, I would utter words of hope that I would one night escape to a land of endless endeavours, vibrant with vigour, emboldened and beautiful. A world, so very far away from the nakedness that resided within me. But alas, despite my many prayers, my hopes had fallen on deafened ears. My dreams, still tarnished in black and white.
But where there’s smoke, there is fire nearby. The anaemic ash that would fog my mind was the bounty of a blaze within me. I was a flame, rearing to burn like drunk wildfire on the fuel of my defiant destiny. The die was cast, the dye: colour-fast. My mushoku (colourless) was vanquished, banished to the past. Gone were the days of world overcast. A life of yūshoku (coloured, 無色), vivid and vast.