I'm doing my daily walk back to the train station after class. There are always a collection of homeless people sleeping on benches and asking for money in Grant Park. I usually just walk by because on most occasions they have empty bottles of alcohol next to them. They eventually become insignificant and mold into the rest of the park. They are benches and trees. The only breaths are wasted on requesting money. I don't like to think and feel this way. I am no better than them or any other living thing. Hierarchy's just happen, its not like we choose our position. Unless you are on the top. Or that is if you jump off the social tower and infinitely fall outside of it all. Its not that easy though, to leave comfort and serenity. Plus someone will just move in where you were, so as the tower is not disturbed. Social jenga, that's too bad. I guess enough time makes you desensitized anyway. I've heard them singing before, nothing too exciting though. But today I head over that way anyway. I see this man standing up moving his hands about illogically. It almost looks like a dance, but productive. It is on my way so I walk closer. I can hear a low hum fluctuating in time with his hand movements. As I got near I can see his eyes are glazed over and he is obviously blind. His hair was black and glossy. He looks like he hadn't showered in days, but none of that mattered to him or to me by now. My first thought to myself is that there is someone behind a tree or a bench creating this tone, so it looked like the man was. The sound, however, is obviously at source on this man. I get within ten feet of him and just stop. What he is playing is an original melody. It looks as if his worn hands are taking the air around him to create the sounds. I thought maybe he has a speaker planted on him and a fixed routine. But there is no can for money, he is doing this for himself. I stared, still at the wonder in front of me. He stopped abruptly. He said "Would you like to know?" With a raspy voice. I am not used to dealing too much with strangers and didn't trust him of course, so I decided to learn more. "Know what?" I asked. He smiled and said "Know how to make colors into sound." This scared me a lot. This guy is obviously on something and I don't want to be attacked. But at the same time I was curious, no matter how cheesy it sounds. I wanted to learn a new instrument, this one he spoke of, if its real, seems to represent the soul more than any plastic factory toy. While I was pondering all of this I didn't notice his advance. He touches my eyelids. His fingers are warm, then hot. Then my eyelids start to burn. I screamed and fell back. I sat on the ground, clutching my eyes as they felt like they were melting. The infection spread slowly into my eyeballs. I cold feel them start to harden. The heat made them solid. A liquid began to drip out slowly, but not tears. It was a thick white liquid that came out like toothpaste. It slightly cooled my eyelids while passing through, but then they just came back to pain. "Open your eyes!" he yelled demandingly. "I can't," I yelped. "Fucking open them and the burn will go away!" I know now he's gone through it. It was the most difficult task what I went through next. It seemed impossible that I can forget about the pain and just open my eyes. I doubt my eyes even work now. I use every possible muscle in my face to try to open my eyes. I try for a horrible six or so minutes to do this, but to no avail. I feel exhausted now and fall to the ground in failure. I sit there wondering if from now on I am to suffer the pain, and to no longer have vision. I will never be able to draw again, or sculpt. I'm going to need a cane and won't know if there are people staring at me, right in front of me. Or if every bit of food I eat from now on will be crawling with insects or any other undesirable substance. I feel like crying. "I didn't fucking say 'yes', you don't have any right to screw me over for life!.." I yelled in pain. The pain reaches a point now where it is not increasing, but constantly on the brink of intoleration. However consistency will not lead to my getting used to it. He says nothing. I can't see, but I know there is a crowd gathered around, watching me without being able to help. "Cowards! Call an ambulance!" I can feel myself wearing down. My body exhausts to the point of losing mobility. I am not able to move my arms or legs. I mumble something in another effort to curse the man who put me in the suffering. I fall on my back, no longer concerned with living. I don't care anymore, its not worth the pain. I should stop worrying. As I realize this my body becomes completely relaxed. My eyes open. I stare off into the sky. There is an array of primary colors swooping about, but not intermixing. I look over at people talking far away. When they speak a different color comes out of each. The color then keeps moving forward in the untangled collage in the sky. I notice then there isn't a crowd, and there probably never was. I must have spent half an hour lying in the grass being overwhelmed with colors. I love each. I feel as though I am in a trance through them. I hear a clear, gentle voice say "They are the tool of you, not you them." I look up to see it is the homeless man. The burning is gone, his eyes are not hard anymore. He has wonderful hazel eyes. "Watch" he says. He puts his hand into a trail of dark blue and pulls it into the yellow he captured with is other hand and a forest green like color emits from it. A voice/theremin like sound sounds. He varies the amount of each color and the pitch changes. He then throws the new green into the voice of a man walking down the street. The sound is a mixture of the man's voice and the sound, but completely new. He then lets the colors go and they unmix and are let back into the traffic. "I still have not found a limit to the colors" he adds. I see a stream of yellow near my hand. I place my hand in it, its warm. It runs through my fingers like water. I place my other hand in a line of cerulean-like color that some woman emitted by the bridge. I cup both hands and the streams reflected like a light beam and melded in front of me. The sound I made was the most beautiful voice I have ever heard. I try his technique of varying. It is rather easy, but powerful nonetheless. I begin playing. As I am, he joins in, in a harmony. We are there for an hour playing, back and fourth. He asks "Do you think its worth it?" I answer "as of right now I don't know, I still have family and friends.. Is this going to ruin all of that?" He places his head between his hands and weeps "I should no have done it without asking, I don't know if you can go back, I've always been too afraid to try. I just wanted a friend who understood." I felt sorry for him. "Who.. Changed you?" I ask. "It happened about ten years ago. He was 'molding' ,as we call it, with one of his friends. I was a bad child then. I noticed they were blind and decided that would be hard for them to defend themselves. I pulled out my brothers gun and yelled 'give me all you have or die.' They looked at me and laughed. His friend came up to me and said 'gun shots create the ugliest color.' I panicked as he approached me and responded by puling the trigger. He fell. The other one jumped at me as I stood in shock. He was the first person I've ever shot. My remorse for him stopped soon enough though, the other touched my eyelids. I felt the burn and fell down. He said 'try not to open your eyes, it will only make it worse.' His voice frightened me so I put a bullet in him. I could hear him fall, groan and become silent. I didn't open my eyes for years. The burning never stops. I tried one day and as you know the exhaustion led to me opening them. I regret to this day killing them." He began crying, heavily now. "So you found justification in changing me?!" He stopped. I looked look around at the people. I must have not noticed this before, but the people are just outlines. The lines are clear and only around their bodies. The only way you can tell them apart was by the color they breathed, there is no color of skin, or male or female, just a spray of color from each's mouth. I laughed a bit to myself realizing equality requires individuals instead of groups. I walk away from the weeping bum. I study everyone's color sound. I can see a group of skinhead's colors, all the same. Each burns as it goes by me. I cup one stream and create a noise from that projected at them. "What the fuck is that shit?!" One says. "Exactly", I say, and keep walking. A lot of the businessman's voices are faded, but every now and then you get a strong one. I can see his eyes, they're full of energy, something good is in that man's life. A child is standing on the street corner with her mother, although the child's color is artificial almost, it is beautiful because it is untouched by the surrounding city. Every person is no longer just a stranger, I don't know them, but I long to. I love the colors they emit, I want to help those who's colors aren't they're own.
Email: killsane@hotmail.com
