Colors, the experienced ones say, are the most beautiful things in the world.

Imagine putting a strawberry in your mouth, the sweetness exploding with the slight sourness. That is what the color red tastes like. Imagine the sky, void of clouds, but still filled with hopes and dreams. That is what light blue looks like. Dark blue is your greatest fear; that is the color of the thunder you can hear. Imagine seeing a child’s laugh, or getting the gift you really wanted for your birthday. That is what yellow feels like. Orange is the sun, warming your skin as summer heats the world up. Green is spring, it is the grass poking out of the cracked road, as spring arrives.

To you, everything is black and white and shades of gray. You will not see the colors until you find your one true love. It doesn't have to be a person. It might be an animal, a song, a book; it could be anything in this small world. You should hope it isn’t alive, they say. Because then it will always die, and maybe before you. And then, after the rainbow comes the hurricane, an endless swirl of black and white crashing down on you with the simple intent of reminding you that the one thing you truly loved is gone. What do you do then, you wonder, but you cannot ask. People do not like to think of those things, your parents tell you.

As soon as you are old enough to understand, you start the search for your heart’s desire. What will it be? You want to know desperately. You don’t want to wait like your uncle, who heard the song when he was 54.

When you are twelve, you read a book called Das Feuer. It begins in your fingertips. They are gray at first, but then a blush starts spreading to your face. It fills your body, then moves on, to fill the world. Colors are beautiful, you realize. And the thing that showed you the world is a book, something you can keep. You run to your parents, shouting in joy, "Mom, Dad, I can see!" And their eyes well up, their beautiful eyes, is that blue?

You are enrolled in a class to learn the colors. Your classmates range from five years of age to ancient folks, some over 100 years old. You learn that your parents eyes are blue-green, and so are the waves that tickle your feet when you go to the ocean. You discover yellow, and realize that you can feel it now.

You finish your book, and you love it. You keep it beside your bed on your nightstand and every night before bed, you read a page of your book. You want to be reminded of the love in the world before you close your eyes and see darkness.

You are quite content with life when you start to hear about wars, death and destruction. You are sad for everyone that loves and has lost a person, but glad that you simply love a book. Uncertain of what will come, you keep your book under your pillow as you sleep. The closer the better.

Soon, a new leader comes into town. He calls himself the arbiter, the controller, and he brings soldiers with him. Rules, control; he’s in love with power. His power is disgusting; it is vomit green, it is as black as the void. But power is his love. It hides his own colors from him and shows him yellows and reds and pinks. He would do anything to see in color. He takes other people’s rainbows, forcing grays and blacks and whites, in hope of sustaining his own beautiful world.

You don't like this man. He is an evil, evil man. He is a ruthless leader, taking colors away from the people he claims to want to help. He hides music and books from children; he sends fathers, sons, brothers to the war; he sends sisters and daughters and mothers to camps, and if anyone returns, the colors won’t.

You are safe, you tell yourself. You have a book and this crazy man is after innocent people. You feel bad for people; you can see lives destroyed in color; the gold and silver hues of lives lost floating towards the dark blue skies. You are safe.

You are not safe. He wants to destroy every single book that is not his. You can only read his book but you will not say the name of it, it is the opposite of love. You have seen colors for ten years, but this book reminds you of searching for love. It is the void, so dark that you cannot remove yourself from it.

“The soldiers will come around to collect all other books,” he announces, “Resistance is worthless.” You will not give your book away. You will not let go of your love for some silly man who clings to his fake colors. How can he find love in destroying everyone’s lives?

As snow hesitantly falls to the earth as if clinging to the sky, you hear a knock at your door. The soldiers are here, and they want your books.

“No!” you shout. You stand up to the soldiers that order you to return all your books. They cannot take these stories from you. These are people’s whole worlds. The soldiers spit at you, knock you to the floor, walk past you, and take everything. They even take Das Feuer, that you thought was cleverly hidden behind your underwear. You thought they would have shame. They only have duty.

As they walk towards the front door, about to exit, you scream, you try to fight. It does not work. You see your book taken from you, taken from your own house, and you have no idea what's about to happen. You’re anxious. You don’t know what to do, and you keep reaching towards your night stand, expecting to read another page of Das Feuer. All you have, however, are the damp pages of the arbiter’s book.

Weeks pass. You still see your world in color. Your book is not dead. Everything is fine. Maybe the arbiter is keeping all books in his personal library. Maybe he isn’t as bad as you thought. Your hand moves towards your empty nightstand by habit and all thoughts of a kind arbiter leave your mind. He took your love away.

One night, you receive a proclamation. It is meant to look inviting, but it looks like an elegant command, just written on expensive paper. You are expected, it says, to be at the annual celebratory bonfire. Celebration of what, you ask yourself. There is nothing but pain around you. You have to go, though, so you put on your nice clothes, one cold night, and walk to the bonfire.

It starts with the children, young boys and girls, marching, singing praise to their master. You watch their sweet brainwashed faces as they celebrate a murderer’s birthday. Are they even taught colors? They seem to be content with their black and white; no face seems to be searching. When you were young, there was a clear difference between those who searched and those who could see. That difference does not exist here.

The arbiter speaks to them all. Your ears are closed to his words. You don’t give a damn about this devilishly smart man. He calls to the children, and a few older ones step forward. He hands each of them a lit torch.

The pile of firewood is huge, taller than even the platform the arbiter stands on. From where you stand, you can only see sticks poking out of the top of the pile. A boy pours gasoline everywhere, and yells, anticipating, excited for what will come.

Another boy, throws the torch onto the firewood. It catches fire quickly, and tendrils of red and orange send heat into the crowd. You didn’t realize how cold you were, and you start rubbing your hands together. This is a beautiful night, you think to yourself, as you watch the ashes, glowing scarlet, rise up then snow onto the ground, turning gray. You stare into the fire, so bright, so vivid, so warm.

You are standing there, an hour later, when the fire is dying out and the crowd is starting to thin. You don’t remember when everything turned gray again.