Magenta

Children aren't colouring books. You don't get to fill them up with your favourite colours - The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini.

Where children spent their childhood scribbling gibberish on paper, I learned to draw flawless shapes as a child. They were astounded by my ability to draw a perfect circle with steady hands. Everyone thought a prodigy had been born. I don't exactly remember what made me love colors. Maybe it was because of that painting competition I won for the first time ever in fourth grade. That was the first time I felt like I was on top of the world. And I decided that I would always be on the top.

Something about the colors and shapes kept drawing me into them. By sixth grade, I could differentiate nearly four kinds of green. The color magenta was my favorite. People were shocked at my talent, they asked me how I managed to create magnificent landscapes of locations I'd never seen and paint gardens that seemed as if heaven's doors opened straight into it? I was Vincent Van Gogh waiting to create my very own starry night. But then my night sky came down crashing as high school happened.

My colors were stashed away in the closet. The pallets were removed and replaced with books. Brushes were replaced with calculators. My jar of water was replaced by endless mugs of coffee. My parents urged me to "Focus on what was really important for a change!!". I was advised to study to the best of my ability in order to gain admission to a select few institutions. They informed me that it was always a matter of pride for a parent to boast that their child was a Harvard scientist instead of an unsuccessful artist. My choices just didn't matter.

Fingers that drew perfect circles now required a compass. Hands that could sketch a human without any hitches now trembled as the time ran out in the exam halls. A mind that was so focused when gripping the paintbrush now lay scattered between geometry, algebra, and calculus. A superior brain that was once the creator of cities and landscapes just sat there solving equations.

With every passing semester at college, I kept forgetting all the different color hues I once knew. I didn't get into fights anymore when people said teal and turquoise were the same. I just didn't care anymore. Magenta was no longer my favorite. In fact, it had been ages since I last saw magenta. In short, there was no longer any such thing as a "favorite" in life. The canvas wasn't the only thing that was blank anymore; my life was too.

After getting to paint the proud faces on my parents with my "no piece of cake degree", I realized I no longer wanted to do anything with colors. I was going to forget all about my beautiful colors and shapes. Now there were only two hues that made sense to me: black and white. Life was either white or black, wasn't it? All of my fantasies of being on top of the world, as well as my enthusiasm for painting, had died slowly. In fact, it was murdered, and I failed to fight for it. And now as a punishment, I was condemned to spend the rest of my life in pitch black regret.

Years have passed, and I still only see in black and white. After deciding to buy a gift for my grandson, I returned to the craft store after what seemed like forever and selected a painting starter kit for him. I sit on the sofa and watch him unwrap the kit and see his face light up as soon as he sees the paints. He gives me a kiss and a hug before moving on to unwrap the other presents. I then watch him closely as he leaves all his gifts on the floor and dashes into the kitchen to assist his mother in preparing dinner. Like a chef already, I see him stirring the pan, then plating and garnishing the food. 

 And at that moment, I decide to swap the painting kit for a kitchen starter kit.

 And now, after all these years, I start to see magenta again.

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Shroo <3