The story I will be telling you is among the numerous fabrications of the human mind. It is of such absolute preposterous origins that sane men and women like yourselves and I could not hold with such nonsense. Indeed we would not! We have progressed and could well establish that fine line between reality and fiction; we do not believe in the claims of the dreamers and stargazers.
The story is about a boy named Oscar whose head was among the clouds. He was a dreamer and a believer in illusions. He had grown to conjure imaginings that are charming but alarming. As he was a child, people smiled at his infantile claims and knew he would grow out of them. Behind their smiles at innocence, however, they hid suspicion of something perturbed lurking in that boy. It shook them and terrified them. Not that by any chance the people were close to believing his claims, but that these claims were so preposterous that they shook every foundation of their faith and knowledge.
With time, however, this boy turned into a teenager closed up in his own world. Yet as his childish fantasies turned into adult conviction, people’s smiles drooped into looks of scorn until finally the people were assured that Oscar was mad.
Having grown into a man, he declared to anyone who would listen that there exists in the world a number of colors. He spoke of Blues and Reds and Yellows and Greens, and that these colors cover the vastness of the world.
Of course, we know better. We humans, having circled the moon and sun, know of the fundamental components of grey shades and their parent colors, and the only two colors for that matter: the White and the Black. We humans, having finally triumphed in our intellectual achievements, know that Blues and Reds and Yellows and Greens are mere fiction written in fairytales as entertainment for the guileless youth.
Oscar’s story began on a morning like any other when he came rushing through the kitchen door, while his mother baked one of her famous cakes. They lived near a wood on which edge he played with Mila, his only friend. It was a sunny summer day, and the sun hung in glamorous white removing the greys from the world.
“Mommymommy LOOK!” Oscar screamed excitedly to his mother, holding up a little flower as the shade in his eyes turned pale.
“Yes, Os. It’s a beautiful flower.” She barely looked at the flower and resumed mixing the flour with the eggs and milk.
“No. Mommy look at its shade! I’ve never seen such a beautiful shade. LOOK!”
“Yes, sweets. Indeed! it is very pretty.” She looked down at her child, her eyes vacant, then stooped and kissed his hair.
But his mother’s indifference did not seem to bother Oscar. He was so bewildered by his discovery that he rushed past her and jumped next to his father, who sat on the couch reading the paper.
“Daaaaad. Dadadad. LOOK!”
“mhm.” his father said, not even looking up from his paper.
Oscar immediately stood unfazed, ecstatic and frantic still. What should he do with this flower? It must be kept safe!
He had learned at school that flowers need water to survive, so he filled a glass and put his flower. He then rushed to his room and laid the glass on his bedside table next to a picture of his favorite cartoon character.
The next day, Oscar woke to the grey of the flower as the white lights peered into his room. Oscar sure must have realised that what he’d seen the day before had been nothing but a figment of his imagination. He, however, insisted still that he’s seen a different shade.
[to be continued…]