The Scream of Silent Colors

The Invisible Spectrum

It began with a question no one dared to ask out loud Where do you belong when the world won’t let you be yourself?

I learned early that life isn’t black and white; it’s a chaotic mess of colors no one wants to name. And in that chaos, I was neither here nor there. Not enough for the straight crowd, too messy for the “queer” community. A ghost drifting between worlds, invisible to the very people who should have seen me most clearly.

My story starts in a neon-lit club, pulsating with music that promised freedom but delivered confusion. Seven years ago, I stood there, caught between two truths, feeling like a walking contradiction. My wife, radiant and fierce, ordered her drink a sharp, red warning against the dullness of the world. I drank silence, swallowing the label they slapped on me: bi. Bisexual. A word that felt less like identity and more like a sentence.

The room buzzed with whispered judgments and sideways glances. The queer collective, which should have been my sanctuary, became a cage. “Go back to your husband,” they sneered. It wasn’t just rejection it was exile, a reminder that my existence disrupted their neat categories.

I wanted to scream, to tear down their walls with words sharp enough to bleed. But my voice cracked, a fragile thing trying to survive in a world that refused to understand. So I danced. Not because I was free, but because dancing was the only way to keep from shattering completely.

Later, at home, my wife found me exiled under the harsh glow of a neon sign, clutching my pulse as if reading a secret message. “You’re a ghost,” I said, and she kissed me like an exorcism, reminding me that even ghosts can be seen if someone chooses to look.

But love alone couldn’t build a home for my restless spirit. I needed a place where my truth could roar, not just whisper. So I joined a band Polyphonic Spite a rebellion in melody and noise. We were a kaleidoscope of identities, a family of misfits who screamed open letters to a world that tried to silence us.

On stage, I shed my elf ears and scars, letting my voice carry every wound and triumph. “This song is for the bi girls called tourists, for the fluid boys labeled confused, for the nonbinary warriors shedding pronouns like armor just to survive one more family dinner,” I yelled into the mic. The crowd howled with me, a pack of souls fighting for a space in a world that wanted us invisible.

But the fight was far from over. Weeks later, I returned to the pride collective not as an outsider, but as a performer. The same voices that rejected me before were now listening, their silence breaking into hesitant applause.

“I am not your mascot,” I declared. “I am not your myth. I am the glitch you couldn’t cancel because I was never on your schedule.”

Recognition tasted bitter and sweet, a fragile victory in a war of acceptance.

That night, my wife texted, “You still up?” I replied, “Always. Too loud to sleep.”

She sent a selfie smiling, lipstick smudged, a little drunk. “You’re a legend.”

I laughed, “Legends are dead things. I’m still causing problems.”

She said, “Good. Stay unsaintly.”

And so I did.

Seven years later, I am still that inconvenient truth dancing, shouting, loving without apology. A Molotov cocktail of color in a world desperate for diamonds.

I’m not broken. I’m not confused. I’m alive.

These are things that every person has in their daily life.

I want to write what is true to life.

I hope you will give me your opinion.

Thank you so much for reading! 😘