My sister craved it until all her bones were tingling, and her thoughts were a cascading mass of schemes to obtain it. And when she did have it the blood pumped itself into a frenzy and brought new life to her once limp limbs. Her eye balls glistened as a new kind of light shone on them. It was an illusion of sorts, one I began to romanticize.

I watched her from the time I first saw light, my guileless eyes searching for something to let my mind sink into.

She wrote down everything in a grey Five Star notebook with sharp, controlled hand writing. One time I took my lime green marker and scribbled over the cover, letting my hand sweep across it with free strokes. When it was discovered her hands trembled as she painstakingly copied every word into a new notebook, and then silently threw it away.

My sister loved telling her friends what they should do. I would eavesdrop by her door at times, and listen to her high pitched chatter as she gave endless advice. Little by little, the chatter diminished. Until it was just my sister talking to herself.

I grew older and and peeked into her bedroom that was decorated in hues of grey and pink. Every title that rested on the oak book shelf was organized alphabetically. She kept a paint can under the bed, filled with the light grey color on her walls. On Sunday nights after our mom was asleep, a pink light glowed from underneath her door and I could hear the scratching of a paint brush as she redid the walls. I could never sleep on those nights because the paint fumes found their way into my nose and sank into my skin. The only dreams I ever had pictured my feet sinking into a pool of paint. There was no color in these dreams, only varying shades of grey.

I found myself scrubbing the carpet in my room where I thought the paint fumes had leaked into. I kept repeating the familiar back and forth motion, letting it soothe me into a mindless routine. But as I continued, the steady scrubbing sound only served to irritate me as I realized her stench had become a permanent part of my carpet.

For some reason, that smell never did entirely leave my room. It would revisit me in small moments when my laughter was a forced chuckle or when my smile stretched my skin a little bit too tightly. When it did make its appearance, it captured my full attention. I continued to scrub until my carpet remained thread bare.

I began organizing my clothes in color coded sets and I bought a whiteboard that came with a smelly green marker. In sharp, controlled hand writing I listed my goals, schedule, and commitments. I stayed up late at night plotting out my life in every color but grey.
The illusion was complete.