The girl's mouth is set in a grim line as she pushes aside the heavy folds of black. Her eyes are focused ahead into the darkness—the kind of darkness that makes your head hurt to look at. But she is unfazed. She pushes forward through the thick night.
There. A gleam.
The girl stumbles a bit, scrambles to get up, reaches for the glitter. It’s a wisp of orange—something bright to spit out of her mind today. If she can get it. She strains her hand towards where it floats, shimmering in the churning tangle of thoughts. It brushes the tips of her fingers, and she leans forward against some tarlike mass (biology homework—biomes, ecosystems, life life life) and grabs it.
Everything explodes into color. The girl picks up a pencil and smiles. It is a brightness today—summer kisses and playdough and fingerpaintings left in the sun to dry. The heavy, moldering blackness flees to the corners of her upside-down bowl mind. The bowl is translucent at this time, showing blue-blue robin’s egg that slopes down the wildflower ground where she sits. The orange is weaving through her fingers silkily and casting sunrise-light on her face.
She hums something. A vine bursts through the flower-carpet ground next to her and snakes around in front of her. She scribbles something on it and it sends forth three crimson flowers.
She gets up and trips lightly to the dome-wall, where dovefeather clouds blow across the sky. She reaches out and grabs hold of one, writes on that, releases it to float away.
Everywhere. She writes everywhere, until the words roil in jewel-tones along every contour of the mind. The she laughs, sets down the pencil, and the bell rings.
The colors blend together, form something phoenix-like and hued like the sun. Then it bursts into nova, and the girls eyes burn shut as she smiles. Books gathered up, she moves to the next class and the blackness rushes in to fill all the gaps.
She posts later that night.