LITERARY | The Day I Left the Crayons on the Floor

In the wake of paints, pastels, and buried sketchbooks piled under tax filings and college essays, there’s a constant craving inside us that we continue to ignore—the craving for self-expression.

Remember the crayons that we used in elementary? The crayons we placed on our tables one by one as we shaded each white space, wondering whether the colors stayed within the borders of the coloring books. The time we still notice the vibrant leaves outside the windows that persuaded us to pick greens from our 24 crayon packs. Or maybe those white crayons that we disregard, unbeknownst to us, will be the most useful crayon in the pack.

Back then, starting over was an instinct; continuing an artwork came naturally with minimal effort. We held those crayons with passion and drive for new challenges, without having to think about the consequences—like time bending between the strokes and colors, compared to the constant ticking of deadlines and expectations.

And somewhere in between growing up and responsibilities we hold, we forgot to pick up the crayons left on the floor. They continued to roll in the corner until dust began to form along the sides of its sleeves, which started to fade.

And just like that, years have passed, and I may have known more than the names of the 24 colors those packs hold. Bright blue became cerulean, and light yellow became apricot, but their colors no longer registered in my eyes the way they did before.

And with the constant craving for recognition from people who, God knows, don’t really know who I truly am, those crayons knew parts of me that didn’t need to be explained or asked for.

And while they insisted on choosing between black-and-whites, colors waited in between the spectrums of my potential. Since the crayons never bid, never urged, yet they knew everything long before the colors in my eyes had faded.