Most people are gray. Walking around, not knowing it, they’re trapped in thick smoke the color of ash, living their whole lives thinking they’re feeling the great highs and lows of passion and depression, love and hate.
They’re lying to themselves; they feel pale echoes of those things, all that their rotten, broken souls can endure.
It wasn’t always that way; people used to come in all colors of the rainbow, their little personal ecosystems flashing brilliant red and orange and purple, thundering into deep black or royal blue. Most people then were like that, but time wore on, souls got tired, and most of them now are just gray.
That’s why it’s such a treat to see the old brilliant colors again, to see someone wreathed in virtual fire or lugging around a jet black cloud of depression. The last one was almost a year ago. I’m lucky to have found another one so soon.
I’m hungry, you see. Hungry for what produces those lovely auras, that little spark that’s almost entirely died out amongst you humans. I get by – we all do – on the scraps that are left at the table. The dry, dusty taste of a gray soul suffices for survival, but not for flavor. The ones who can conjure other colors, they are like a five-star banquet meal, and stave off the hunger for months at a time, instead of only hours.
There. That one. Little kid, looks like. It’s hard to see him through the bright reds and yellows that surround him. Doesn’t matter. He’s angry about something. That doesn’t matter, either. No one will notice when he’s gone. They’ll barely turn their heads when they realize he’s not shouting at his mother or a stray cat or an empty box or whatever it is that has caught his ire.
Then he’ll be mine. All mine.
And I am oh so hungry.
Insomniac Nightmares 
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