Colours. Do they exist? Does everyone see colours the same? Is my idea of green the same as yours?

An eternal stream of these questions flow through every crevice of my mind, flooding it in more than just a mere curiosity, instead, an insatiable raw need to know, to learn.

But these are questions that you can never really know the answer to without looking through someone else's eyes.

In theory, how could you look through someone else's eyes?

You cannot simply cut out someone's eyes and look through them like spectacles.

Trust me, I tried it.

Afterwards I realised it never would have worked, because although you are looking through another's eyes, you are looking through your own as well, so what you're seeing is but a combination of the two.

I tried to explain this to the man with no eyes, but he screamed over the top of my words.

I am a thief. I stole eyes.

I told them I did it in the name of science, but they didn't seem to care about colours as I do.

I fell in love with a colour, once.

It was a fiery, glistening concoction of orange and red, yellow and brown.

I passed it in the street one day, and the wind swirled it around my face.

In that instant, the colour seeped into every one of my senses; it was all I could taste, hear, see, smell and feel. It was my self, it was my surroundings, my world.

For one instant, I felt something close to happiness.

So I followed the colour when it walked away.

When it threatened to disappear completely, my fear was tangible. It thickened the air, slowed time, and darkened the sun itself.

Fear is a powerful colour. It is black, with radical shots of red. It has a hint of stark white, the colour of widened, frightened eyeballs.

I tracked that one colour in many, as it slid sinuously down the path of monotonous grey away from me.

It could not be allowed to escape.

I dived into its welcoming, tangled depths and surrendered to its hypnotic hold.

That is when the screaming began, quickly followed by dizzying blows.

I managed to yank out a small handful of the colour before the screaming lady whipped her hair away from me.

The world was cold again, but this time I had a small beacon of beautiful, fiery love to cling to.

I wanted to ensure that my strands of joyful red could never be separated from me, so I carved a suitable hiding place in my arm.

The deep red drops that poured out made a nice pattern against the white of the floor.

My body did not seem happy with this addition, but it sealed it inside for safe keeping.

That bit of colour is the only one I have with me now, but it is torture- for although I know I have it safe inside of me, I cannot see it.

It was the colours that landed me here, in this place of dull, mind-numbing tedium.

All I wanted was to paint a picture of the colours of life.

Colours sit inside us.

They fill us up; give us shape, and life, and movement.

The most stunning thing of all is that the colours on the inside are the same in all of us.

It is true; I checked.

If every person was inside out, people would see that we are not so different from each other, and stop judging on appearances.

So I put a man on my balcony with a mirror, for he, and the world, should see my point.

Then I peeled off his skin.

For a second it was perfect and beautiful, but there was nothing holding the colours together anymore, so they splattered onto the floor in a quivering mass.

The liquid colours leaked off the balcony, one drop at a time.

Drip.

Drip.

Onto a little boy, sitting below.

I smiled.

The boy screamed.

He did not appreciate the poetry of the moment.

It was at that instant that I decided to paint the picture of the colours of life, to let the world see as I do.

There were seven of them.

I introduced myself to each one, and I even memorised their names; I needed those.

I waited for the darkness to smother the life in the streets, and dragged my medium out of its hiding place.

A cat with matted fur watched from a shadow as I dragged a body past.

It was alone.

It followed, and gazed fixedly at me as I cut the bodies to pieces in the most public place I could find.

That cat was the single living being that seemed interested when I shared with it the contents of my thoughts.

I took comfort in that as I arranged the pieces.

Seven names.

Each painted in the colours of one person.

I was sitting in the centre of the town square, surrounded by my work, when light broke through the gloom and the town stirred.

I watched as their mouths opened, one by one, and sounds came pouring out.

The sounds had no colour.

They took me to a place where the doors were locked.

Where everything was the same.

Where colours didn't exist.

The emptiness of it pushed against my brain.

Each day I forgot a colour, and my mind shrank as it lost each one.

Blue, violet, lemon and teal.

All gone.

The last colour to leave me was my favourite red, living on inside my arm.

Then the world was black and white.