The lighthouse looks specially ancient today, grandma says it's a thousand years old, but she also says lizard bites can get you married. The beach looks specially nostalgic today, the water looks gray, the sky couldn't be more cloudy. It has rained daily since Charlie arrived, what a luck, a few days earlier and he would've caught a sight of the sun over the daisy fields. I don't think he is going to stay for long, the big city has really got into him, i hope he doesn't end up losing himself, as many have done before.

Even if it is still raining, I felt like today was a good day to come to the beach, the ties are violent, the sand is muddy, there are some crabs, but yet I wanted to come today. It just seemed right. I've come here every two weeks ever since i first entered the light house, I had never went back in, but I just wanted to see it, to be sure it was still there.

I was quiet certain that the lighthouse wasn't a thousand years old, but I wasn't sure either if it wasn't as old as the ocean itself, the structure was complete, it was really mossy, but the entrance door was intact. At the outside it just looked like a rock-made pretty old lighthouse, but in the inside it was considerably different, never in my life had I seen it work, but to be fair never in my life had I seen a ship land in our pier.

The watery wind hit my face, I tasted my lips, it was a rare combination of salty mud with solitude of abandoned island. And for some reason, I look at the lighthouse, as if it was talking me into going back there again, dinner was until seven, so I went. I walked with my bare feet trough the muddy sand, climbed the sharp rocks and made my way to the door. I knew it would open again, but something in me still believed that last time, it had been just a dream. So i barely pushed the door, and it opened, squeezing every inch, and a big room revealed itself.

It was just like I remembered it, with big bookshelves filled with rare books written in some language I knew I would never understand, some others were in blank, others showed maps of places i think didn't exist. But the interesting part were not the old books, nor the dust in them, the treasure was upstairs. So as I climbed the stairs i looked at myself in the mirror-covered walls, reflecting a girl with a muddy white dress of all sizes, shapes and even colors, at some point I just didn't feel they were stairs anymore, but then there was it, the purple door, which I easily opened. It revealed a room with a giant crystal shell, surrounded by white canvases, the windows showing the ocean were painted from the inside, showing a beautiful stared night, the Sun kind of ruined the picture, but it was still lovely.

So as I walked by the room, I saw the white canvases, and I avoided them, just to get to the big one at the end. Just to get hold to that beautiful piece of nothing in an empty space, when I reached it, I was unsure, and I still don't know if it was a rush, or it was the need, but I touched it. And then the canvas stained with a bright tone of purple just where my finger tip was, then i dared to put my whole hand, and the purple stain slowly became a large figure of different colors. Then I put the other hand and the figure became bigger with more colors, defining nothing, just a figure-less group of mismatching colors. It was easily the most artistic and beautiful thing my eyes would ever see. And then without touching it, the figure became bigger and bigger, showing colors I didn't recognized.

The figure started growing, slowly, quietly, filling the once white canvas with colorful figures. Then, when the figure hit the border of the canvas, the stain continued with the walls which were painted as the night. And soon the clouds and the constellations in the pictures lost all form to become one with the fest of colors, the paint continued expanding, the walls took the most bright yet opaque colors I had ever thought of. Soon the silent paint reached the other canvases, filling them too with those poetic colors which could express far more than all the words in those heavy incomprehensible books. As the paint continued, it started staining the floor. The whole thing was the most extraordinary fantasy in the world.

As the paint continued to fill the room, just like the last time, my feet began to color. It felt like a tingling sensation from the toe to the tip of my hair, It felt as if I was a complete being with the paint, with that room of the purple door, one with the entire lighthouse, connected with everything that was beautiful in the world. Soon I was made of color to my waist, the rest of my body awaiting to join the room, waiting to join it all. And at the moment my entire hair was dyed in a colorful mixture of pinky red and blueish orange, I felt once again that I was one with the color, with all the colors in the world. And I will never be sure, but it felt like I was there for a few centuries, feeling the blues, smelling the pinks and the magentas, tasting the cheerful lime greens and observing all the joyous grayish whites.

Then, as quietly as the stain filled the whole world, it quickly, after a few hundred years for me, went away. And again I was there, standing in the main room of the old lighthouse, touching a blank canvas, in a room with pieces of nothing, in an empty place. And just as I did last time, I went to the purple door, left, went down the mirror stairs and observed the books one last time, then went to dinner, back to my world, back at the monotonous gray that my life was. Back in a ghost island in the middle of black.


By I'm the penguin