I remember when they took it away.

All those books, Web sites, TV interviews: they all vanished in a puff of a New Age whim. I know my parents didn’t believe I understood the concepts, but I did. They hoped, but that was all. They told people like Larry King and Oprah that I was an “Indigo Child” while making excuses whenever I would bang my head and scream.

Correlating the world was painful.

Now, bound in the cool straps of my straight jacket fed my daily regimen of Quadromine and Phenobhal I can finally see beyond.

The craze died down when it became clear the other so-called “indigos” weren’t getting the treatments they needed. They were just kids with broken brains, not getting meds to help their minds: none were like me.

I close my eyes and peer into the world outside my walls so I can play with my toys. I make people dance and rain clouds swirl. Cars crash and airplanes dive. People laugh and sob without knowing why. I laugh at my fun.

No one knows the source of the indigo skies, but I do.

I do.