Thought for a couple of seconds
Rainbow Become a Patient Cyanosis
The sky had always known Rainbow as a show—bright arches stitched from sunlight and rain, a promise after storms. But this time something different happened. The colors that once sang in vibrant chords began to falter, one by one losing their heat, until the whole arc hummed in a hush of pale blue. People stopped and held their breath. Children pointed. Cameras clicked. Even the birds fell silent as if listening for a heartbeat.
This is the story of Rainbow becoming a patient cyanosis — a gentle, surreal fable that turns color into feeling and weather into a bedside. In the opening, we meet Rainbow as an old friend of the town: a spectacle that lifts grief, stitches lovers back together, and makes stray dogs pause with wagging tails. But under the surface of its cheerful display, something is wrong. The usual reds and golds are dimmer; the warm center that usually glows like a furnace is cooling. Anxious clouds gather, whispering of moisture and wear.
As cyanosis — the bluish tint of skin when oxygen runs low — enters the tale, the narrative transforms color into symptom. The rainbow’s red becomes a memory of warmth, orange and yellow fade into exhausted pastels, and the bright green that once promised growth turns a weary sea-foam. The arch no longer sparkles; instead it trembles with the hush of a hospital ward: the low beeps of monitors are replaced by distant thunder, and the breeze moves like an IV drip. Townsfolk gather with scarves over their shoulders, as if wrapping a patient against cold. They name the condition out loud, half in medical curiosity and half in superstition — “cyanosis” — and the word hangs between them like a diagnosis.
Through intimate moments, the story follows a handful of people who refuse to watch passively. A small girl with rainboots presses her palm against the cool underside of the arch, whispering stories about summer and the smell of mangoes. An old fisherman brings a jar of seawater, insisting that salt remembers color. A nurse, who once treated people and now treats weather, reads aloud from a book of remedies that blend meteorology with hope. These small acts become the pulse checks and oxygen masks of the tale — gestures that, while impossibly gentle, feel urgent and human.
At its heart, the piece explores what it means when something beautiful falters: the grief, the care, and the compulsion to mend what we love. It asks whether beauty is merely spectacle or a living thing that needs tending. The ending resists tidy resolution — sometimes the arc brightens faintly as rain thins, sometimes it stays a soft, cyan ribbon that teaches the town to notice subtler shades. Either way, the experience leaves everyone changed: more attentive, more tender, and a little more aware of the fragile breath of color that threads their days.
“Rainbow Become a Patient Cyanosis” is a short, haunting vignette — equal parts melancholy and wonder — that turns an everyday miracle into a tender bedside vigil, reminding us that even the brightest things sometimes need our care.
