The Stars That Never Get to See the Sunlight(Joseph Joshua T. O'yek) He watched as the rays of morning slowly descended and crept into his room, the ebony walls, the ink black curtains and the charcoal of his bedsheets. Everything was perfectly still save the melody of merry birds from without. It was but another of those singular days which at first glance seems to present the most commonplace of developments, until the succeeding events prove its underlying subtlety wrong. A soft angelic voice began to fill the room, followed by the gentle and youthful strides of a teenage girl. It was not by mere chance that the boy recognized the sound of her lips in an instant. The times with which they whiled together are now so diverse that utter misconception would be far beyond crime.

The room fell into silence as he observed her black hair flowing smoothly down her dark skin. And she in turn silently surveyed her twin’s amber gold bedsheets, the marble white walls and electric blue curtains, drowning the room in all her gaze. She still found it a miracle that after all the misfortunes that chanced to befall them, here they are, still able to call the same place home.

“Cherry Blossoms,” the boy murmured, accustomed as he was to the girl sitting beside him. As is the custom, the girl led him out into the open porch. Day in and day out, they go through the same routine. The words would spill from his tongue and the girl would arrange the chamber for him. He’d recognize the warmth of her palm against his and the scent of her Camille perfume as they walked hand in hand into the evening daylight.

The boy settled himself wordlessly in the middle. Faint sounds would occasionally wander into the abyss of his ears to be recognized as sounds of the girl constantly moving around. The screech of chairs. The echo of a vase settling. She noticed the carnation of the sakura petals and he watched intently as she placed them carefully in vases of slate. On his right was an obsidian piano, and in front, a black canvas. Not more than five minutes passed before the room was complete, and the girl seated herself right beside the boy.

“I see you’ve finally done as I advised, Dawn,” the boy said.

The girl looked at his calm, limpid expression. “Yes. I referred it to them yesterday, brother,” she replied.

“Well then, shall we begin?”

And that was the exact process by which the daily fate of the piano came to be realized. As Dawn graced its white shiny surface with pristine delicate hands, she saw her own face, the trees and the flowers all encompassed on that single plane. It was such a marvelous sight to behold, and yet at the same time far too distant from the true wonders that lie beneath the fall. It swung open noiselessly to reveal a row of 52 jet black keys and 36 milk white keys, like a languid skeleton clad in night jade.

She dipped a finger into the unknown realms of black and white and a beautiful note filled the air. She pressed another key and a low melancholic tone burst forth. Usually, what will have soon followed was the chorus of various notes. It was, however, for this day delayed by a very significant event. The sound of wheels furnished the nostalgic atmosphere until any further concentration was rendered fully impossible. A brilliant blue limousine had just stopped by their gates.

An old man, about fifty, came out. He wore a black tuxedo and carried with him a long walking stick that radiated a sense of formality and professionalism. A younger-looking man was with him, though less distinct with the impression.

“Excuse me,” the older one said in a gentle manner. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord Simon of the Louvre Museum. I came here on an errand regarding the painting recently submitted, Evergreen Divine. I could not help but notice what a magnificent and wondrously majestic work that was. Would you happen to be the creator of that astounding masterpiece, madam?”

“I’m afraid I have no particular talent in such fields, Mr. Simon. It was actually my brother Midnight who made that painting long ago,” she said gesturing to the boy beside her. Lord Simon’s eyes traveled from the boy to the blank canvas and then onto the paint lying below. He then chuckled and gave a hearty laugh.

“Pardon me, but I came here on a professional mission. If you would be so kind as to tell me the truth, I would be highly obliged.”

“I swear by the most solemn oaths a woman can take that the true creator of that painting is none but this young boy here.”

“It seems that your modesty is quite a trifle more than what I expected. Unfortunately that is not my cause. I wish to know the maker of that painting this instant.”

“If truth be told,” Midnight interrupted. “Then she speaks only the truth and nothing more. I am in fact the one who sketched that artwork. The person you seek is right before you.”

“How far exactly are you willing to carry on this nonsense, I wonder.”

“Very well,” sighed Midnight. “What is it that makes my accomplishment seem highly improbable to you?”

“Probable?” The man looked rather taken aback. “Why, it’s practically impossible! I mean no disrespect, but for heaven’s sake you are blind! I refuse to accept the fact that such a marvelous and stunning piece was drawn by a man who doesn’t even realize the notion of a three-dimensional perspective. I myself have trained long and hard, toiled the endless regions of brushwork, traveled the vast expanse of visual art. Yet, everything I have attained, all that I have drafted upon the mysterious windows of art, are not the slightest close to Evergreen Divine. And you still dare claim to be the rightful author of it?”

“Are you prejudiced that my eyes are mere stars that never get to see the sunlight?”

“Your eyes herald only darkness and despair. Had you the ability to paint, it would be blasphemy above all others.”

Midnight did not move an inch. He simply smiled and said, “Allow me to give you a simple demonstration. Dawn, would you be so kind as to hand Mr. Simon here the palette?”

“What is the meaning of this?”

Dawn handed him a mixing plate with paint of different colors. It appeared to be a randomly modified set of the color wheel. “Choose whatever color you like and I shall unblinkingly recreate it.”

Preposterous, Lord Simon thought. How could it be possible for a blind person to distinguish between colors? He picked the lowermost one.

“Aha,” he exclaimed with a triumphant smile. “You are so full of yourself. Let’s see you recreate this!”

Midnight sat still for a few seconds. The cold wind blew against his closed eyes, and he just stared at the small puddle of black paint. He then took a brush and two cans of paint. The moment he laid a finger on the first one, it immediately turned blue. He did the same with the other and suddenly, it exploded into a cream white tint. He started mixing different amounts of the two and finished with a shade exactly the same as Lord Simon’s.

“Alice blue,” Midnight said softly. ”A pale tint usually used to address calmness and stability of nature. Sometimes used in conjunction with the soothing properties of cerulean blue and sky blue.”

“Great God, how can you have possibly made that? I refuse to believe this.”

“If your determination to distrust faith in me would carry you so far as to not believe your own open eyes, then why don’t you pick another one?”

And he did as he was told.

The same process repeated. Midnight conjured upon his plate the exact vermilion of Lord Simon’s choice.

“Life and eternity, though I might add that this also carries with it the same power as red, and the same arrogance as yours.”

“How on earth---”

“There is more to painting, Lord Simon, than merely observing the colors of a rainbow. One must be able to grasp the true nature behind them. Otherwise, this whole world would only be a mere spectral lie. Have you never wondered whether the sky is really green, and the trees blue? That maybe we are all just colorblind? It is not a question of what is light, but rather what it is not; not the presence, nor the purpose, but the absence of it; to look beyond what is written in the spectrum and view the universe as a congregation of boundless creativity, of infinite thoughts and ideas. Colors are not tools. They are feelings. They are life.”

When Simon did not utter a single word, Midnight continued, “Go forth, and think about what I said. I am afraid that under the circumstances which Fate has dropped upon us today, it is not I who am handicapped, but rather you. You are so blinded by the love you hold for the physical world that you have completely forgotten what it was originally meant to convey. Sight is not a necessity. As long as one remembers to open his heart, then it is as well that his windows are closed. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

He turned back to the black canvas and Dawn resumed her seat. She once more touched the fabric of unmoving sounds and again, it let out a surge of musical streams. The new-found harmony returned the wind to life. The solemn breeze blew cherry blossom petals into the sky. They spun and swirled like a pink winter storm, into a blend of scent and sound which Midnight would build his next masterpiece on.

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