House.

It is not midnight, the sun has just settled a couple hours ago. Dark outside, a sea of absorbing blackness. I am alone, in my two-storey flat, lying down on cold ceramics, undecided. I didn't shut my eyes, and let my ears open. Nothing clinks, as if everything is put to silence for that brief moment. This is not a horror story. I myself am not a big fan of creepy shows, but I love to watch them together, with a lot of people. That's because I can laugh at their reactions, the slightly ill logic behind it all. Being scared together doesn't really make sense to me. What's left for those ghosts/monsters/aliens if we can gather our power altogether?

However, you can forget those when I'm alone. Down right powerless will I be. Like now. Getting up, I remember I haven't taken a shower since morning. I go upstairs, at a pretentiously relaxed pace. I find no reason for dashing. Won't it look silly anyway? Nothing chases me, no one is in pursuit of me. Still, no one is looking at me there, so what's the point of preventing myself from looking silly?

Except, perhaps, my reflection in the mirror. I start to let my guard down. My imagination begins to take a little walk around. What if it's not my reflection after all? What if there's another creature, mimicking every single movement of mine behind that tenuously stained mirror? Who can prove me that it's only reflection? I avoid the mirror in my parents' bathroom and go straight to the bathroom. "Shit", I think, "I forgot my shampoo!"

My greasy hair can't bargain no more. I'm back downstairs, spare no extra second for anything but my shampoo. Off upstairs I go, white bottle gripped tight in my right hand. I quickly undress myself and check the tap water. The heater is on, good. I can't imagine taking cold shower in the night. The thought of it already chills me to the bone. I'm particularly not good with low temperature, let alone experiencing it naked.

I put my clothes on the toilet bowl beside my bath tub, a pair of sea blue oversized shorts and a printed, supposed-to-be-fitting tee. I can't do much laundry since we moved out just recently, so I'm going to wear the same clothes to bed. Except my pink ruffled panties, of course.

I let the water run down my hair, my face, my back, my legs, my toes. They crinkle, taking in the warmth. The smell of miniscule minerals floating in the flowing water. The rustling sound, until the water sinks down in.

Mmmm, peace. Until it strikes me, I've forgotten my towel! Gee, I must have been so nervous. I quickly finish my shower and turn off the water tap. Water dripping from my hair, I refrain from swashing here and there. Mum has just cleaned the floor and I don't want to waste her effort. I tiptoe to the washstand, foggy mirror before me. I wash the mirror. It's my reflection. The rabbit eyes, the pores, the blunt nose. It can't be anyone else, can it? If it was someone else, I must say she had done a very good job.

I give it a good, long stare. I know, it's only reflection. But I can't shoo away that alternative possibility easily. I touch my hair. My reflection follows it instantly, not a second late. I bite my lip. I stare into my reflections' eyes. The darkest shade of brown. They are sucking me in, I draw myself closer to the mirror. I give the mirror a little touch. The reflection is touching my hand, too. We are only separated by one layer of glass mirror. What if we swop? I, become the obedient reflection, she becomes the physical me, the possessor of free will.

As I solemnly drench myself in my awkward notion, something clinks. I exclaim silently, out of spontaneity. Fuck, that's terrifying! Not loud, but I suppose in this grand silence, any sound, no matter how small it is, will not fail to shock me. I walk out naked, my hair still wet. I reach for my thick towel which has been hanging on the window grill. I find walking naked in my own house personally amusing. As if I'm being transparent, with nothing to hide.

I wrap my hair with towel first, trying to let it soak up the water drips. I walk back to the bathroom to dress myself. Water everywhere. Never mind, it will have dried up by the time my family is coming home.

I thought before, all the terrifying feelings when I stay alone at home will gradually subside as I grow older. It's kind of surprising that it hasn't faltered a bit ever since. I'm not suspecting any monster to live under my bed anymore, but I'm still scared of nothingness, of perfect silence that is deafening, echoing inside the empty house. I like all the places I've been staying in, along with the mysteries whose whole existence I've made up myself. I love houses.

COLOURS, NOTHING LESS.

Let's try to put things into a simpler state. Imagine your world painted in black and white. No, no colour, no versatile emerald green, no glorious ruby red, no creamy lilac. Just black and white. Does it make a better picture, or would you prefer some spectrums of colours? It's not a matter between simple and complicated. It's not whether you are a fan of old or contemporary films. It's just about colours.

Who first came up with the black-and-white-world idea? Imagine again. It's black and white. But who told you that white suggests a saint and black, a devil? Because white indicates full presence of light, and black denotes an absence of light? Is too much light a good thing? I'd like to say that there are as many not-so-innocent whites as there are not-that-evil blacks. The two often exchange positions. Thus, the first drawback of picturing the world in black-and-white. Intuition or merely easy assumption?

I know the world is not black and white. Even if I'd like it to go monochromatic, there are a lot of areas covered in grey. Second drawback. 80% black, 50% black, 20% black. There are greys everywhere, each offers different depth and message. Does it make grey a colour? I don't know, I'm not good at classifying. All I know is, some of us are terrified with greys. It's stable uncertainty (yes, oxymoron), it's an in-between, it's sadness and an unnamed state of simply swaying around. Does grey make you sad? Does black and white make you lonely? Are we better off with colours?

I like black and white as much as I like colours. I'd like to think black and white as colours, nothing less. I don't think I will love the world any little less, even if it gets pretty monotonous sometimes.