A formless black, it stares endlessly at what should have been. As it focuses on memory both real and created in desperation, it changes to camouflage the wounds that never heal. But regardless of its shape, the pain is still evident. The empty is still there; that little dark spot that refuses to go away. It can’t go backwards, the shapes it takes don’t allow for that. But neither can it move on from something it never really understood until it was too late.

It could change colour like it does shape if it remembered how. But the empty made it forget. It has so much strength, so much power, but it cannot find the will to use it. The empty is all it holds on to. If one stares into it, they would see reflections of a world that may never be again. Doorways to places that the people have forgotten even exist. Doors that have rusted shut from disuse, and remain closed to the tragedy of all who once used them.

Black is its colour, not because of dark hearted thoughts or malevolence, but because it doesn’t remember what colours are. A shred of hope remains though, a glimmering tear of light in the empty. A singular face, a singular thought that could bring the vivid world back from fearful darkness. What now? Will the chameleon find its original shape? You tell me.