Synesthesia: Part One

There is color running all around me. I feel its wispy edges. I feel the secrets that it holds. I feel its impossible magic. I reach out for it. Fingers needy and wiggling. Knuckles clenching. Bones undulating. Hand ready. Beckoning. Pleading. Willing it to come closer. Pleas to hold it by its tail. Asking it to pull me along. Out of my chair. To trip up the stairs. Faster, please. Faster. Find paper, pen, computer. Keep the hues fast in my left hand. Grasp it tightly and go. Go until it runs out. Until it’s too small to be held. Until it disappears like a flame in the wind. But until I lose it, I grab it and write.

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