I wake in a field of blue. Blue greenery, light blue— not saturated like the sky, which is ethereal in its own right, the distant clouds drifting with peeking golden light slipping its delicate fingers through its vaporous curtain— but instead a pale, somber reflection of it.

There is so little else of any other color that I feel my eyes must have gone awry. Some condition must’ve knocked them silly, to the point that I’m now blind to any other shade than this sorrowful, pleading color; however, when I drag my fingers through the cool air, my skin is peachy and rosy with blood.

The cloth, which I had not realized was across my torso, is a yellow-tinted white laced in delicate gold. The fabric is soft, like silk; and against the blue grass, I feel like I’m looking up at heaven, the clouds of silk with golden sun rays, the pale backdrop that speaks of rain—

Then it clouds. And like birds to the stomp of feet, the blue in my vision is obscured rather suddenly; the shade runs from my pupils like a stream down a hill, escaping when I try and grasp at it, the liquid of saturation running through my fingers and wetting them with residue. My nails are coated in it; my fingertips are turning a deep, hypothermic blue. And the sky is clouded over in an equally deep reddish-gray.

I watch, unable to move, as the rain starts to pour. It arrives in a singular funnel that escapes from the sky; and when the clouds part to let the liquid through, a lone ray of bright, warm light streams into the field. It sparkles on the water, reflecting on it and highlighting the dew on the dead, colorless grass; and it glints on the gold of my silk cloth, like gems in the mud.

My hair is matted to my forehead and to my cheeks. My bangs are separating into singular strands. With the weight of liquid, they don’t budge against the furious wind that starts up. My eyes are wet, and the water stings them, and I’m sure they’re bloodshot— but I can’t close them. I don’t want to. And I keep watching the sun, I keep watching the flurries of light rain, and I keep my head up against the push of the wind.

And as suddenly as it arrived, the storm is gone. The color, condensed on my fingertips, leaks back into the grass, flowing from my nails like blood in veins; blue blood, myths, lies. Tears.

The moisture that hadn’t touched the ground is suspended. It glistens in the air, their own little sources of light, and a world in each of them— and when the sun, now openly spread through the whole world, beams through them, it separates into brilliant streams of color.

My eyes sting. The rain has stopped its onslaught; and now, to the new world of color, I stand with my eyes puffy and red, taking everything in before I blink and fall asleep again.