When I dream of my future I dream of a big white house. On the outside its going to look like nothing; bleached and peeling from the sun. Inside, its going to be a white mansion. The walls are going to go on forever, The glass is going to overlook green and yellow and trees and mountains. The walls are going to be white and I'm going to have tins of paint. I'm going to have thick brushes and splattered drop sheets. It's going to be a house for the imagination, and the walls ain't gonna stay white for long.

Little kids like colorful. Step into a class room for children under ten and you won't be able to even guess the color of the walls. There'll be posters, pictures, lists of words, a calendar for birthdays, the star chart. Everything is a color, everything is bright and pretty. Childish writing and the parent's projects are hung on the walls like butterflies in a lepidopterist's room. The work books are covered in shiny pinks and blues and metallics. Their whole world is an overload of color.

Personalities. They bound out of bed and trail rainbows around the house. They slither gray to the bathroom and you have to wait for a face to see even a spark of color. Old people, their skin loses it's tan and the cheeks are only painted and the eyes grow dim and the hair color could not be guessed upon. They're expected to lose personality once they've lost their color. Is that why we paint on so much face? Why hair dyes change our hair color? Why our clothes can be beautiful and bright and colorful, or they can be plain and simple and blend into the whitewash? Do we change ourselves every time we change our color?

Right now, the shops are colorful. Their catalogs are sent out every week, every two weeks, on shiny paper. At Christmas the colors are red and green and gold and blue and sliver. Colorful. The trees, standing tall, begging you to buy them, promising a happy Christmas where everything will work out because this time you have the perfect tree. There's the right colors to buy and the right tree and the right paper and the right napkins but you have to color code. It has to be pretty and perfect and colorful. Only then will it all be okay.

I drew a picture, three, four years ago. I got a photo of me when I was four. Cute blond hair and amazing green eyes. You'd think skin is a shade of yellow or pink. It's not. I used purple and blue and green and red and orange and yellow and pink and brown. I used them on top of each other and I used them next to each other. When you look in the mirror you might think you're ugly, you might think you're beautiful. You might see last night's drinks falling across your eyes. You might feel bleached from the same office every day. You might be burnt from the sun. But you, my friend, are an array of colors, scorching across the world. You are colorful.