The lighthouse

The lighthouse looks especially ancient today, granma says its a thousand years old, but she also says lizard bites can get you married. The beach has a nostalgic atmosphere, the water looks gray, the sky couldn't be cloudier, it has rained daily since Charlie arrived. What luck, a few days earlier and he would've caught a sight to the sun over the daisy fields. I don't think he is going to stay for long, the big city has really got into him, I hope he doesn't end up losing himself, as many have done before.

Even if it is still raining, I felt like today was a good day to come to the beach, the ties are violent, the sand is muddy, there are some crabs, but yet I wanted to come today, it just seemed right. I've come here every two weeks ever since I first entered the light house, I had never went back, but I just wanted to see it, to be sure it was still there.

I was quiet certain that the lighthouse hadn't been there a thousand years, but I wasn't sure either that it wasn't as old as the ocean itself, the structure was complete, it was really mossy, but the door of the entrance was intact. At the outside it just looked like a rock-made pretty old construction, but in the inside it was considerably different, never in my life had I seen it work, but to be fair never in my life had I seen a ship land in our pier.

The watery wind hit my face, I tasted my lips, it was a rare combination of salty mud with solitude of abandoned island. And for some reason, I looked at the lighthouse, as if it was talking me into going back there again, dinner was until seven, so I went. I walked with my bare feet trough the muddy sand, climbed the sharp rocks and made my way to the door. I knew it would open again, but something in me still believed the last time it had been just a dream. So I barely pushed the door, and it opened, squeezing every inch it moved, and a big room revealed itself.

It was just like I remembered it, with big bookshelves filled with rare books written in some language I knew I could never understand; some others were in blank, others showed maps of places I think didn't exist. But the interesting part were not the old books, nor the dust in them, the treasure was upstairs, so as I went to the stairs, and I looked at myself in the walls covered with mirrors, reflecting a girl with a muddy white dress of all sizes, shapes and even colors, and I started climbing. At some point I just didn't feel they were stairs anymore, but then there was it, the purple door, which I easily open, to reveal a big round room with a giant crystal artifact, surrounded by white canvases, the windows leading to the ocean were painted from the inside, showing a beautiful stared night, the Sun kind of ruined the picture, but it was still lovely.

So as I walked by the room, as I saw the white canvases, and I avoided them, just to get to the big one at the end, just to get hold to that beautiful piece of nothing in an empty space, when I reached it, and I’m not sure if it was a rush, or it was the need, but I touched it. And then, the canvas stained with a bright tone of purple just where my finger tip was, then I dared to put my whole hand, and the purple stain slowly became a large figure of different colors, then I put the other hand and the figure became bigger with more colors, defining nothing, just a figureless group of un-matching colors, which were easily the most artistic and beautiful my eyes would ever see. And then without touching it, the figure became bigger and bigger, showing colors my eyes didn't recognize.

The figure started growing, slowly, quietly, filling the once white canvas with colorful figures, then, when the figure hit the border of the canvas, the stain continued with the walls painted as the night. And soon the clouds and the constellations in the picture lost all form to become one with the fest of colors, the paint continued expanding, the walls took the most bright full and opaque colors I had never thought of.
Soon the silent paint reached the other canvases, filling them too with that poetic colors which could express far more than all the words in those heavy incomprehensible books. As the paint continued, it started staining the floor. The whole thing was the most expectantly fantasy in the world.

As the paint continued to fill the room, just like the last time, my feet began to color, it felt like a tingling sensation from the toe to the tip of my hair, It felt as if I was a complete being with the paint, with that room of the purple door, one with the entire lighthouse, connected with everything that was beautiful in the world, it was an indescribable feeling. Soon I was made of color until my waist, the rest of my body awaiting to join the room, waiting to join it all. And at the moment my entire hair was dyed in a colorful mixture of pinky red and bluish orange, I felt once again that I was one with the color, with all the colors in the world, and I will never be sure, but it felt like I was there for a few centuries, feeling the blues, smelling the pinks and the magentas, tasting the cheerful lime greens and observing all the joyous grayish whites.

Then, as quietly as the stain filled the whole world, after a few hundred, or a few seconds, it went away. And again I was there, standing in the main room of the old lighthouse, touching a blank canvas, in a room with nothing but white pieces of nothing, in an empty place. And just as I did last time, I went to the purple door, left, went down the mirror stairs and observed the books one last time, and went to dinner, back at my world, back at the monotonous black and white that my life was. Back in a ghost island in the middle of black.