Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Dear God ❯ Dear God ( One-Shot )

.Dear God.

 

 

 

Dear God.

 

It rained today. Droplets of moisture that rained down like tears—a million tears for every one that a human might shed; the rattle of thunder that quaked in my soul like a frightened child, lost along the way; the crack of lightning in the skies that illuminated the gray and created a washed-out mass of another shade of gray, and yet . . . and yet I did not see the beauty in those things. Is that wrong? Is that awful and horrible and contemptible? Those shades of gray . . .

 

Dear God.

 

I was brought up to look for the little things, things like a butterfly resting on the petal of a newly unfurled blossom; raised to see the joy of the life that I've been given—the people whom I hold dear to me, closer than my heart, more necessary than my breath; to look beyond the superficial to see what might lie beneath and to understand that nothing is ever exactly how it seems. I think I forgot those things, too, just for a moment, and for that moment, I forgot what it meant to smile. Smiling is pink, isn't it?

 

Dear God.

 

As I consider those who have touched me; those who still touch me every day, I wonder—really wonder—even if I say I love them, do they know? Do they really know? Those whom I love, they are the ones who have spoken to me, not in my head, not into my ears, but have whispered in murmurs and in the quietest tones, and I've had to strain to hear them . . . and those whispers, they're green, new, beautiful.

 

But if I listen closely, I can hear them. I can hear their reassurances, their devotion, and I realize that maybe it is okay. Is it okay? To feel emotions that aren't nearly so pretty, to feel as though I'm completely alone, and sometimes . . . sometimes I can paint my colors black?

 

And I spend my time being everything that everybody needs for me to be. I spend so much time, invest so much of myself, that at times I have to wonder if anyone really understands it, at all? Do people understand how much of the very essence of me that I share because . . . because I need to. Sharing in purple hues, giving all of the parts of myself that I dare, and maybe a few that I really should keep for myself . . .

 

Still, for the myriad of images that fly through my brain, for every word that appears on my pages, I've discarded a thousand or more just to find that one word: that one phrase, in shades of happy yellow because that is who I want to be . . .

 

So I thought that after a certain time, I'd come to realize that those I hold dear will come and go, and no matter how hard I might try, I cannot hold onto them, cannot make them stay because it'd be easier for me or it might make me happier . . . a fleeting splash of blue . . .

 

What's that old phrase, Dear God? Oh, right . . . “Don't know what you've got till it's gone” . . . and who put the irony in that? Why is it that I must lose anything to understand its true value? And the pain that comes with the knowledge . . . It's bitter, and it's vengeful, and it's ugly . . . And the words of that emotion are brown.

 

Dear God.

 

So if what I feel right now were a color, would I be able to give it a name? And somehow it's a mix of all of those things, isn't it? A certain indistinct shade that creates me, that redefines me every time I turn my head: the kaleidoscope of my life . . . but . . .

 

When there was nothing left but an odd sense of emptiness . . . what then? When the colors become so thickly embroiled, one into another . . . when every shade of my rainbow run together like water paints . . . when the words cease to be anything more than a collection of letters on a page . . . That's when I have to ask myself—ask anyone—can they ever be separated again? The rainbow became a blur; the blur became a wash. That wash . . . what is that? How do I turn it in upon itself? How do I define it?

 

But then I realize, Dear God . . . I realize that the doubts and the fears and the feelings that nothing in the world could ever comprehend me . . . It all makes sense it its complexities, doesn't it? It remains so high above me, in a time and in a place that means nothing and everything; the paradox of my life and my will . . .

 

So the manifestation of the miracles that I've witnessed, both large and small, both horrifying and awe-inspiring, but I wonder . . . I wonder . . . as the dawn breaks over the still-leaden shadows of the murkiest dark . . . in shades of golds and oranges . . .

 

These colors that become me, that surround me . . . I know just what they mean to me.

 

 

 

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This piece of work is wholly original. Any resemblances to real people are coincidental and unintended. Copyright belongs to me.

 

~Sue~