Fictable No. 51
Artie dreams in bright colours. In blues and greens and reds and white. Everything there glows with golden hues and shimmers, silver and pearl. In his dreams he wanders slowly through misty valleys of tall trees and plants with flowers that could eat you whole. He walks down citrus avenues, lemon and lime filling his senses, his nose, his mouth, his eyes, his brain, the strength of the sensations so elating that he feels he might drown in it and be happy that he had.
In his dreams he walks, and runs, and can jump and dance, and it never feels like a dream because he can remember doing all of those things. It is only when he wakes and he remembers the weight of his legs, the lack of feeling, that the colours start to fade, draining from his vision as though they were being sucked out through a straw into the distant dreams of someone else, some other, someone allowed to have colour in their lives. Someone that Artie hates.
Artie dreams in bright colours and bold movements. He lives in brown and grey and sitting still.