Smoke isn’t supposed to have a color. It should be gray, dull, and meant to disappear. But step into a world where every breath is laced with shifting shades, and nothing feels quite real. This isn’t about foggy metaphorical thinking—this is about living inside something that moves, blinds, and stains.
Most people would rather keep their air clean, predictable, and free from anything that lingers. The idea of breathing something unknown, something that changes its form and weight without warning, makes them uneasy. But air is never empty, no matter how much someone wants to believe it is. Color seeps in, whether it's noticed or not, and before long, the lungs adjust, the mind warps, and the body learns to exist inside something new.
Some smokes are soft, curling around the body like a whisper, while others slam against the skin like a slap. No two colors behave the same way. They don’t mix in neat gradients or obey the rules of art theory. Some take over entirely, drowning out every other shade until nothing else remains. Others fight for control, shifting in unexpected flashes, making it impossible to settle into any single version of reality.
Stepping into the Haze
Walls don’t matter when the air itself is alive. One second, the space glows green, thick and luminous, pressing against the skin like something living. A blink later, deep reds roll in, choking out everything but a pulsing, feverish hum in the chest. Colors don’t just fill the air; they dictate mood, movement, and even the weight of a thought.
Green smokes make people think they’re safe. Soft, fresh, and cool to the touch, they spread through the air like moss growing over old stone. But safety is an illusion, and green carries a slow kind of poison. It convinces people to stay still when they should be running. It makes hesitation feel like wisdom, and waiting seem like a strategy. By the time someone realizes they've been trapped in it, they've already grown roots.
Red doesn’t bother with tricks. It doesn’t whisper or coax. It shoves. It forces action, rattling against ribs and forcing steps forward that might not have been taken otherwise. Nothing feels careful inside red smokes. Words snap like dry branches, thoughts sharpen, and hesitation dissolves into something reckless. Some people mistake this for power. But red doesn’t give anything freely—it only loans, and it always takes back more than it gives.
Drifting Through the Spectrum
Blue smokes pull in the opposite direction. They don't push—they drag. Weight settles on shoulders, limbs slow, and sound fades into something distant and muffled. Blue is the kind of smoke that presses into the chest like cold hands, making breath feel like a chore. It doesn’t ignite action like red. It doesn’t soothe like green. It just sits, heavy and endless, turning time into something that stretches too far.
Some people learn to live inside blue without realizing it. They don’t fight it because they don’t notice it settling in. Thoughts loop in slow, circular patterns, repeating without resolution. No urgency, no drive, just the illusion of movement without ever getting anywhere. This kind of smoke doesn’t burn—it erodes. The edges of thoughts, the weight of desire, the sharpness of memory. All of it dulls until nothing feels sharp enough to cut through.
Yellow smokes act like they want to help. Bright, buzzing, and electric, they shake up the air with an energy that feels infectious. Everything inside yellow feels fast, alive, crackling with possibility. But yellow lies. It hides the edge of exhaustion beneath its glow. It tricks people into thinking they’re invincible, running on adrenaline long past the point of collapse. It burns out fast, leaving nothing but ashy exhaustion in its wake.
The Lies of Clarity
White smokes are the biggest fraud of them all. They seem clean, crisp, and safe—like fresh sheets or untouched snow. But spend enough time inside, and they suffocate. Not with weight, but with the absence of anything else. This is the kind of smoke that tricks people into believing they’ve escaped, when really, they’ve just been swallowed by something so quiet they can’t hear their own footsteps.
Some people chase clarity like it’s a promise. The idea that if they strip away the noise, the distractions, the distortions, they’ll finally see the truth underneath. But clarity is a myth. White smokes don’t reveal anything. They erase. They bleach out the contrast, flatten everything into something colorless and still. Instead of answers, they leave behind nothing but blank space, and that’s not the same thing.
Smoke with color might overwhelm, but at least it leaves something behind. Stains, burns, echoes. White smokes pretend to be kinder, but they leave behind something worse—emptiness. Not a mark, not a scar, not a sign that anything ever happened at all. And somehow, that feels like the biggest loss of all.
Letting the Colors Stain
Living inside colored smokes means accepting the stains. No one steps through red without carrying some of its fire. No one breathes blue without feeling the weight of it settle in their chest. Trying to scrub it all off is pointless, and honestly, a little insulting to the experience itself.
Some people fear the smokes. They want clean hands, spotless minds, and perfectly filtered air. But anything that hasn’t been touched by the haze feels too thin, too fragile. Colorless lives crumble faster than anyone wants to admit.
Better to walk through the smokes and let them do their damage. Let the reds scar, let the blues weigh down, let the yellows burn out. At least then, when looking back, there will be proof that something was lived.
The Beauty of Unclear Air
No one ever asks smoke where it’s going next. It shifts, rolls, and drifts, following unseen currents that don’t care about plans or preferences. Maybe that’s the real reason people fear it—because no matter how much they prepare, smoke moves on its own terms.
Some people try to chase only one color, thinking they can control which stains they carry. But the air doesn’t work like that. No one gets to choose the exact shade of what sticks to them. It seeps in through cracks, lingers in folds, and settles deep in places no one thought to guard.
So why fight it? Let the colors press in. Let them stain. Trying to escape means missing out on the only proof that the air is alive.
