Sound and (Color) Fury

I wish I could describe how colorful this place is. I will always remember the colors here.


Even I feel more colorful here. Even though my customary black is still around, it's being supplemented by my bright red shoes and my brighter green jacket.
 
The clothing here is colorful - maybe it's because not everything matches, maybe it's something else. I feel a brightness. The women here wear clothes, long skirts, wraps, jackets, shawls. Multi-colored.

The food is colorful, too. Even this seems to light up the world around me.

Priscilla's favorite color is red. Her house is painted a soft pink (mauve, perhaps?) but the inside is all pale wooden floors or plain tile floor, with red accents. Red rug, red chairs, red candles, red lamps. Red pillows sit on the khaki colored chairs.
Yellow kitchen tiles with stainless steel appliances (or the spray-painted refrigerator pretending it's stainless steel).
My room is bright pink, painted in the similar spongy style that adorned the bedroom of my adolescence.
The shower curtains are pink and purple and the curtains are bright pink Hello Kitty. I'm so glad that I brought my own blanket, something to break up the pink party that I'm living in.
The trains are blue and yellow, covered in black and white graffiti.
The mountains are rocky, green fading into grays and oranges. The sky is blue, cloud-filled, or gray, also cloud-filled. The clouds here are whispy, misty, almost fog creeping slowly over the mountains to nestle in around the sleeping houses.
The rain comes in the night. I hear it tapping on the plastic roof next door. I had nightmares the other night, terrified that Priscilla would think I'd left the shower dripping, paralyzed in my own mind about the punishment. I woke to her laughing as she sipped tea in the kitchen, and the realization that the fear was all in my dreams washed over me like a tidal wave. Relief gave way to annoyance as I lay there listening to the constant "drip, drip, drip, drip" of the water sliding off the roof.
Sand along the dark black roads, pale concrete, bricks. Maybe the color lies in the multitude of materials used to construct these houses. Metal bits, fencing, concrete, bricks, anything on hand. The houses are painted colors, the tuck shops quite aptly tucked in between the houses bear brightly painted signs, Coca Cola, cigarettes, all things sold here. Flour and eggs, sugar, milk. The sweets and bags of chips glitter from inside the darkened storefronts. They call to passerby.

The other night I was so desperate to take a picture of the sunset. I looked outside, past Priscilla's blue roof with white trim, set so odd against the pale pinkish house, above the street to look at the mountains. Above the mountains, the sky was the faintest blue mixed with whites and pinks and purples, all the softest of pastels. The clouds weren't solid, they looked like someone had taken cotton candy and roped it through the sky. It was beautiful and soft and it was home.