• I sit here by myself as others go by, their hair a range of blue. Why is it blue? Why not red like the flowers or green like the sky? I tried asking someone once but the question didn't merit an answer I guess because they hurried away without looking back. The black river flows by and I remember once asking my mother, years before.
    "Why is my hair blue mommy?" was how I'd said it. Mother was making the wonderful, grey chip cookies.
    "Our hair has always been blue dear; that's the way it is." She seemed completely at ease with the question at the time but the week later I'd been sent to see the Mentality Specialist. I'd looked past our worlds perfection and that had scared her.
    Now in the purple grass I ask myself why? Why did it scare her to ask questions? Why was the world content to be so... so... Boring. It was boring and commonplace and steady. The Specialists didn't let us ask questions. But why blue? Who had decided that we had blue hair, grey chocolate, purple grass, and red flowers? Chocolate didn't even sound grey! It sounded brown. The thoughts swirl around my head, dangerous and delightful.
    I've made up my mind. I'm going to find out why or die trying.