The taste of colors in a dream

As I stepped forward, the world around me bled into hues I had never seen before. The sky wasn’t blue but a deep, syrupy indigo that dripped into the air like honey. I reached out, and as my fingers brushed against it, my tongue tingled with the flavor of ripe blackberries, tart and sweet, sending a shiver down my spine.

I had never tasted colors before.

The ground beneath me pulsed, shifting from one shade to another. First, a golden yellow, warm like the embrace of the afternoon sun, melting in my mouth like buttered caramel. Then, it turned into a soft green, the crispness of fresh cucumber and the earthiness of basil tingling at the edges of my senses. I laughed, but the sound floated upward, spiraling into the swirling lilac clouds above.

A river of crimson wound through the landscape, thick as melted chocolate. I knelt beside it and dipped my finger in, hesitating before pressing it to my lips. The flavor burst across my tongue—strawberries with a hint of spice, cinnamon and something deeper, darker, like longing itself. The sensation was intoxicating, and I drank from the river, feeling it warm my veins with an energy I couldn’t describe.

Then, I saw the trees—massive, their trunks deep, obsidian black. The leaves shimmered in a thousand shades of blue, from the palest periwinkle to the richest cobalt. I plucked one and let it dissolve on my tongue. It tasted like the ocean, salty yet refreshing, leaving behind the memory of crashing waves and the whisper of forgotten songs.

A figure emerged from the trees, cloaked in flowing silver. Their face was obscured, but their voice hummed through the air.

“You have entered the realm where colors hold taste, where the senses blend into one.”

“Who are you?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“I am the keeper of synesthesia,” they replied. “You are tasting the emotions of the world.”

I turned, and suddenly, the landscape shifted again. The sky flared into a violent orange, searing my tongue with the tang of citrus—sharp, electric, pulsing with energy. The ground beneath me became a swirling pool of violet, rich as grape wine, deep and intoxicating. The air was thick with the scent of nostalgia, and I realized that each taste was tied to a memory, a feeling, a story woven into the very fabric of the dream.

But then, the colors began to fade. The vibrant reds dulled to brown, the glowing blues dimmed into gray. The taste of the air became hollow, flavorless. I turned to the figure, panic rising in my chest.

“Why is it fading?” I asked.

“All dreams must end,” they said.

I reached out, trying to grasp the last remnants of the world around me, but it slipped through my fingers like mist. The last taste I remembered was a whisper of silver—cool, metallic, like the first drop of rain on a parched tongue. Then, I woke up.

The room was bathed in dull morning light, my reality void of the richness I had just experienced. But as I sat up, I could still taste it—the ghost of colors lingering on my tongue, a reminder that somewhere, in the depths of my mind, a world of flavors and dreams still existed, waiting for me to return.

I reached out, and as my fingers brushed against it, my tongue tingled with the flavor of ripe blackberries, tart and sweet, sending a shiver down my spine.