Dreaming in color

I would wake as a child and hear my name being called from a distance through the darkness of night. I would peer out the window and look for the source of the voice but it was always somewhere over the far horizon. Later in my teens I would stay up at night and look out my window with the lights off in my room, the world swallowed in darkness with only a few brave lights piercing the night, perhaps they didn't hear the retreat call given by the Sun.
I often wondered if the voice calling out to me was the same one that would whisper that everything was going to be alright. I would quietly leave my house, but not to sneak off to a party, but to be alone in the darkness. I wandered through orchards and through dark mountain forests, I once picked flowers by the light of a full moon in a mountain meadow at midnight. I never brought a single source of light with me on these outings, it seemed I was always more at home in darkness than in light. And try as I might even in light there is always my shadow.
I have memories of a place in which I once existed, and at times I think maybe it is the echo of this place in my empty soul that calls out to me. I dream of returning to this place before this one, a place that I felt whole in, a place where I had a name. I open my eyes and sigh for I awaken to a world I am unfamiliar with, one where I am an exile from the place where I truly belong.