With a blink of an eye, a whole century may have passed by, escaping your knowledge. Such a feat is only made possible when the mind is preoccupied with turmoil and contemplation. Luckily for us, few humans live beyond a century. Time is condensed when the moment is good, and elongated when it’s less favourable. That’s only to be expected.

Your life may not even span the much celebrated century. Don’t act surprised; you knew that time was never on your side.

The poor man walks a lonely, miserable road to nowhere. He lives in the present tense, plays indifferent to tomorrow: the future. He has none.

They call him "the poor man" - but words can be deceitful, just as looks can be too. People often misunderstand when he is referred to as “poor.” He may not have any friends or family to speak of, and he may not have many items of personal belonging, but he has everything he needs.

“I have me, myself and I.”

The bare essentials. Nothing else in life matters to him. The poor man lives a fairly minimal and unenviable life. Here, you may wonder how anybody can afford to live such a bland lifestyle. But don’t.

“Don’t wish for luxuries you can’t afford.”

Everything in life has a price tag attached to it. If you didn’t know this, it's best you check, the next time you decide to make another costly purchase. The price of the friends you make are the enemies you create in the process. The price you pay for a perfect love is the inevitable loss. The price of pure happiness is ten thousand times the sorrow. The price of heaven is hell. There has to be balance in life; you can’t have it all.

“You want what you cannot have.”

Even in his current state, he is paying. The price of life is death… but that can wait. Payment is not due until the end of this month. Life: everything else he can’t afford.

Red-eyed, he looks out to the world. Love is red, or so they say. But he exhibits colour blindness with certainty.

Presently, it is winter but the Fates have been unkind to him. There are no soft, crisp snowflakes or drifting snow particles. There's no sign of several inches of thick and frothy, pure white snow, and no children having snowball fights or building snowmen. Instead, the Fates have given the poor man a snowstorm: fierce and unforgiving.

The world hasn’t turned white for him; imperfection like dirt and other impurities.

He feels the wind strike his bare face at full force. Closing his eyes, he nervously feels his ears with both hands to check they’re still there. Thirteen miles and counting: that’s how much ground he has covered by foot since early this morning. And despite his lonely trek, not a single soul has shown themselves in this treacherous weather. And he doesn’t blame them. But he can’t live on the outside anymore. He’s been doing that all his life: watching from the sidelines, playing the observer. He longs to be on the inside now, no matter what the price is.

The poor man dons a long black overcoat: the same one from over ten years ago. It serves as a reminder of a time when he was luckier in life. Ten years seems like an eternity to some, and rightly so. The coat may be the same one that he owned from over a decade ago, but the features are not quite the same. The once full black overcoat has now been reduced to a faded grey: messy, murky, and almost illusionary. Not powerful, composed or in control like the black night anymore. Similarly, the poor man himself has been reduced to a nobody, a shadow of someone who people once respected but now pitied. He might as well not exist: people ignore him enough to warrant and support this wishful thinking.

The poor man’s heart is stuck in Winter's world. That’s been true for many years now. The prison, he created it himself. His coat can only keep his body warm for so long, but even that won’t suffice. He’s cold on the inside too, not just the outside. His heart seeks salvation in the form of another human being: a companion of some sort.

Ten years ago, on that fateful day, he met a beautiful stranger: a girl called Darla. She was kind and selfless: giving without thinking. His heart grew warmer every time she smiled at him. His eyes saw more clearly the colours of the world every time she looked deeply into his eyes. He started to believe in love the more she touched his heart with her kind hand. She gave him a gift: Darla had introduced him to the other seasons. She brought him out from Winter's hold and put him into Springtime's love and embrace.

Darla had blessed him with the kindness of a stranger.

The snow stops falling for a while, being respectful.

The kindness. This is a rare gift: not the type to be wished for, or asked for. Only one person at any one time can offer another person this present.

And so they lived happily ever after…

But true only until hot and heavy Summer arrived and set blood boiling. Red is for love, red is for romance, red is for roses.

Red is for anger: something rather beautiful.

Then Autumn made its timely appearance. Everything that was once full of life grew old and stale. Things started to fall apart, decay. Setting death in motion, Autumn sat back and watched the results with a smirk, rubbing his hands as Darla and the poor man parted. Each to a different direction.

Blue is for sorrow: the rivers of silence that people drown themselves in when all hope is lost.

He looked back over his shoulder to catch one last glimpse of Darla. She carried on walking though, never looking back. A shadow threw itself over the poor man as he cried inside. But never breaking down, he decided to do the only thing he could do. He walked as well: away from his Darla.

His biggest mistake.

Although the season of summer was more memorable for the unkind words that were exchanged, he can still remember springtime clearly. The birds were singing sweet melodies and the flowers were blooming like young children destined for great things. The snow had evaporated, retreating into nothingness and winter ceased to have a hold on him. The world danced for him as he began to see things in colour. Happiness and joy finally granted to the man. She was responsible for everything that went right in his life.

He forgot to thank her for being so good to him. The poor man still wonders to this day whether Darla knows how much he cares about her; how much he loves her.

Black is for secrets left untold: the ones that have yet to be confessed.

Like a stranger that you remember then you forget. But she was no ordinary stranger. She made him see red.

He notices a half-wilted red rose on the side of the road and kneels down, brushing away the remnants of snow from is delicate petals.

“Thank you, Darla.”

He kisses the tip of the rose softly before rising and continuing along his way. Salvation he seeks but first, a beautiful stranger he must find. One day, he will find her again.

Yellow is for eternal hope: the light at the end of the long tunnel.

Beyond the never-ending tunnel is a hidden garden: full of fake red roses. And beyond that, stands his one and only Darla.