Fragmented Colours

The human brain is made up of one hundred billion neurons. Like the largest, grandest city in the world, they form a network of immense proportions, and, also like the biggest cities in the world, they have an amazing propensity for being completely messed up. Nerve cells can act like crossed wires on a telephone pole, blood vessels mirror burst pipes and sometimes the brain can feel about as efficient as a badly designed transport system on a busy day. And then there are the big problems. A flock of dragons carrying flaming asteroids into the centre of the city and dropping them at the exact moment Celine Dion releases a new album. That kind of stuffed up is when the brain becomes a weird and wonderful place. There are people who can see sound. Literally describe the colour and intensity of a dog's bark or the shape of a car horn. Or hear motion. Or taste different words. Brain rewiring is a little like that huge scaled beast and screeching woman. But I think, which is in itself worrying, that the best synesthesia would be to see emotion. To have the scrapbook of your life played out in technicolour right in front of you, shading the situation in the most literal sense possible. And you could never say that you don't know how you feel. 1

But those are the sorts of things that you don't say to the very unaware guy sitting half-way down the bar. Those are the sorts of meandering thoughts that sound very crazy, with a slight hint of idiocy, and I don't want men in white coats ruining my dragon metaphor.2

The bartender has left me in my corner of the crappy bar, surrounded by little piles of nut shells, for a while now, finally put off by the fairly unsubtle hints. I'm happy with the dirty blue nut bowl and my tower of shot glasses as company for the time being: no need for fancy food, fancy booze or fancy company. Simple is good.3

Simple is reflected all around me, I notice when I finally tear my attention away from the most responsive half-shell. In the peeling cream paint behind the bar, the unlabelled bottle of pure fire beside me and the scuffed tiles on the floor. Synesthetes aren't the only ones who can experience their sensations in two dimensions. Copious amounts of alcohol and a wandering mind are the only prerequisites. 4

The cream that is splashed all around me is a pretty good indication of simplicity. It is found in more places that we expect, seamlessly moulding around the more colourful, complex things with which it's paired. A colour so bland it is often discounted, but that offers the neutrality that recommends it to a multitude of situations.5

And...great. The brilliant, undisrupted view of my wall of simplicity (the pocked, suspiciously stained wall behind the bar that is peeling as though it spent a month in the sun) is now less brilliant and much less undisrupted. A rather large, man-shaped body has settled into my line of sight. The man from down the bar, who I really shouldn't share the crazy thoughts and metaphors with. The hints must have been too subtle.6

Not that I should be complaining. Trading in some very alcohol-fueled thoughts for a conversation with a guy who, on second appraisal, is definitely very easy on the eyes should be a very easy decision, right? 7

While I'm too drunk to remember in which order the syllables of 'Hi, nice to meet you, haven't seen you round here before' are supposed to march out of my mouth, he grins, looking much too sober in the way he can lean against the bar without falling over. Floppy brown hair has crept over his eyebrows, falling into his eyes, and the black trousers and shoes scream junior executive. Although I doubt he would be allowed into the office with the state of unbutton his blue shirt is in and the looseness of his red tie.8

Another mark to his sobriety when he is actually able to talk, and, all credit to me, the delay has given a few hundred million of those neurons the extra time to force my own syllables back into order.9

An hour and a half later, which has seen developments including a significant loss of personal space and an exponential increase in both laughter and heart rate, I know I'm in trouble. I can see it in the chocolate brown eyes, sparkling with laughter, the floppy caramel locks, the tan timber bench that is slowly being crossed by a hand that has zeroed in on my own. I've seen it before, in morose classrooms during those elementary years, where everything spelled trouble, from the dirty brown mud on a clean white uniform, through the gleaming chestnut desks that itched to be etched, to the hazel head of hair bobbing around in front, practically begging to be spitballed or hit with any array of stationary. If I were a synesthete, trouble would be brown. A rich chocolate mahogany tone, tempting you across the line from good to bad, and a much harsher burnt colour, when the sinking feeling set in that soon you were going to be in trouble. 10

And it was that burnt sienna tone clouding my vision now as I stared up at the man blocking the cream wall. He was talking about the traffic – a modern equivalent of the weather – complaining about the indignity of congestion and the absurdity of police who had no conception of late when that sobriety I had been so jealous of hit me like a slap in the face. And the second I had it I wanted to give it away. 11

How could I have forgotten?12

I had to get out of the crappy bar, the stench of stale beer, old cologne and something more sinister suddenly too much. 13

I pilfered my pockets and found what was, hopefully, enough loose change to cover the no-label scotch, and slipped (with only two stumbles) out of the chair. Mumbling an apology, I slipped out the side door and rested my head back against the wall, sucking in the fresh air. I now had guilt and disgust to add to the boiling emotions of sadness and anguish the day had induced. Brilliant.14

The tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and it was with a determined finger I drove them away. Stepping away from the building, I jogged down a well-beaten path towards the crashing of the ocean. It was dark. A mottled greyness that was even worse than the lighting in the bar itself, and between my BAC and the hidden roots, the run towards the sea wasn't a Hollywood performance, instead punctuated with the swearing of a sailor and the bruising of a boxer. 15

And then the bar, the stench, the city, the world was behind me, and the whole universe could have disappeared down one of those touted black holes without my notice, as long as the ocean, the cliff and the rocky outcrop remained intact. Jutting up out of the ground a good distance from the edge of the cliff, the white-grey rocks looked like a gnarled fist in the dim light. Collapsing onto the edge, the sobs escaped from deep in my chest.16

Drawing my knees up to my chin, I buried my face in the blanket of arms, hair, thighs and knees, racked with the inescapable tears. 17

And then, strong, enveloping arms. They were attached to square shoulders, below a chiseled face, chocolate eyes and floppy brown hair. The eyes were questioning, what was visible of the brows quirked.18

“A year ago. My brother. There was a car, and he was walking, and the driver was running late and not paying attention and...” I'd run out of breath to continue the rushed sentence. He seemed to get the drift. “Three hundred and sixty five days without my best friend, and I've already forgotten him. Gotten smashed at some crappy bar and flirted with a stranger and shown that even on his anniversary, life goes on perfectly without him.”19

Truth was, it didn't. Not much about my life right now could honestly be termed perfect. 20

Each day was about survival. Not going above or beyond, but just getting through that twenty-four hours before having to set my sights on the next. And this moment was more about survival then the past twelve months put together. There may be the slightest glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, hidden by a dozen twists and bends, but it did little to penetrate the grey mist of pure survival.21

That would be the colour of survival: grey. If my brain was rewired to the extreme. Biologically, the process of survival initiates the shutdown of everything non-vital. Reality is the same. Everything beyond making it through the next minute then hour and day fades to redundancy. The petty worries that were once high-priority no longer even validate a thought. Grey is the same, painting out the extras, the colours and intonations, until just the essentials remain. The grey was reflected in the sharp rocks of the cliff; the ashen sky, laden with rain, brightened by the approach of the day. Looking me in the face. Taunting. Jeering.22

At some point, we had moved from the cliff to the parking lot. I was fairly sure we hadn't teleported, because that would be fairly valuable technology, demanding he spend his time at fancy parties rather than shady bars, but I don't remember moving. He walked over to a beat up old panel van and pulled open the passenger door, motioning inside. 23

I navigated the very tall ledge and made it into the car without decapitating any bodily section or breaking even the smallest bone. I was very proud. He vaulted in moments later, with far too much athleticism to be liked, and stuck the key in the ignition. 24

“Where can I take you?”25

I considered the options. Messy apartment. Parents – messy in a much worse way. One of a few 'convenience' friends. Another bar without the annoyingly kind and handsome stranger. I didn't think he was irresponsible enough to drive me to another bar, and I was much too drained to deal with my folks, so it seemed like home was the answer.26

And then reality wormed its way into the deliberations, jumping up and down on my skull until I paid attention to it. Driving home with a stranger was insane. Getting in a panel van, with a multitude of coloured bobble-heads on the dash and a much too handsome driver was a bad idea. Scratch that, a very bad, insane idea.27

Insanity is a mix of colours. Not necessarily a helter-skelter, one-for-all, paint-ball session, where every tone on the spectrum is mixed in random amounts, rather a calculated mix of two or three colours clearly not meant to be seen in public together. My grandma had a saying: 'blue and green must never be seen, except inside of the washing machine'. And she was a very wise woman. The panel van was a mix of olive panels and sky-blue ones, mismatched all over, and on the dash sat a pink and yellow cat, along with an orange and purple dog. Insane, definitely. 28

And so I compromised, telling him I wanted to stay right where we were. In the car-park of a *bunny*ty bar, fighting off the early signs of a hangover, with a complete stranger, in a blue and green panel van. And as the sun rose over the horizon, sending a tumult of vivacious colours tumbling out over the ocean mirror, my last experience as a synesthete hit me, as his hand snuck past the chunky gear box and his voice filled the enclosed space. 29

“I didn't know him. But I do know that if I were to die, I wouldn't want my sister beating herself up over it. I'd want her to move on; live for the both of us. 30

Redemption. A wonderful, golden, optimistic colour, lighting up the world, chasing away the gray, and renewing a dimmed purpose. A warm feeling, wrapping itself around your chest, squeezing your heart, tickling your lungs. And in that moment, there was redemption in the golden yellow morning rays tumbling over each other on their way through the windscreen, illuminating the clasped hands that lay together on the threadbare seat cover. 31

And from the seam where the ocean met the horizon, the world was a series of fragmented colours.