Monochrome

“I am not special,” I say, as I make my way towards the hall.

Rose dodges a piece of gum stuck to the floor and squints, “You’re just being modest, Leah. I know you’re going to ace the competition.”

I scoff jokingly at her, “Yeah, well, let’s see. It’s been a while since I’ve done this.”

She smiles and wishes me good luck in the form of a kiss.

“I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

I take a deep breath and walk into the hall.

After all the participants are seated, a scrawny boy with thick auburn curls, announces the rules.

“You will each be given an individual theme, chosen out of the ones written on these cards, and you are to write either a story or a poem based on that theme. There is no word limit, so go nuts.”

I begin my daily ritual of positive affirmations to keep the anxiety at bay. After months and months of battling depression and nearly succeeding in getting rid of it, I’ve gotten quite good at self-therapy.

Writing is your passion and you’ve worked really hard. You’ll be okay, comes the calm, soothing voice, as if it were talking to a child.

I receive my card with a smile. My theme is ‘Colours of the Soul’. I rejoice at the creative potential of the theme and proceed to visualize it… and come up with nothing. My mind draws a blank.

Think.

And I try. I think and think, and all I come up with are clichés about love and sadness. I glance at the clock – twenty minutes have already passed.

“I have to get out of here,” I whisper over and over again, as I scrawl some unremarkable lines forming an insignificant story.

I rush out of the hall before half an hour is up. I take a cab home, run to my room and shut the door behind me.

“I am not special,” my voice breaks as my back slides down against the door, and my body convulses as I sob.

Tears stream down my face and my gut clenches with the feeling of falling down and down, never to land. Months of hard work spent in healing me, washes away in a heartbeat. I lost the one thing that I was good at, and the feeling of worthlessness grips me again. No positive affirmations come to console me this time.

My phone rings. It’s a call from Rose, probably wondering where I am. I turn my phone off. I can’t talk to her right now.

You are not special, comes a voice, not as a seething retort, but as a mere statement.

I pause, as this one thought eliminates every other.

You are not special, the voice says again, so you can’t be expected to create a wonderful story or come up with a poem that resonates through the soul, every time you pick up a pen.

You are not special, and so you are allowed to fail. You are allowed to fall down and then get up, bruised, without anyone judging you. Without you judging yourself.

You are not special, and that means that you are free. Free to try new things. Free to fail at them countless times. Free to get better.

You are not special, and that is probably the best thing that could have ever happened to you.

You are not special, and the world is still right there, waiting for you to get back up and start walking again.

Suddenly, I feel a weight lift off of my chest, and I realize that I’m not falling anymore. I’ve landed. Though hurt badly, my feet have finally touched the ground.

I brush off the teardrops from my face, and my vision clears. There are no more tears to come.

“I am not special,” I choke out, as a smile escapes my lips, liberated at last.