He became an orca whale that swam through cold waters and burst through the ice to swallow seals and bears, disappearing again into the darkness below. He admired this form's sleekness, the way he disappeared not only into the shadows under the ice but also its bright reflections; but living the life of a predator was not for him.
He became a zebra bounding across the savannah in a vast herd, his days punctuated with moments of terror and jubilation. He enjoyed running through the endless plain, the feeling of blending in, not being sure where his body ended and the next began in the mass of undulating stripes. But being constantly on the alert wore on him.
He became a songbird, orange and black, and flitted in the forest, singing to his fellows. Here at last he had some colors! His feathers flashed brilliantly in the sunlight; newly eye-catching, he reveled in standing out. But he preferred walking on his own hooves.
His familiar kimeti bones simply felt like the right shape to him. It wasn't a new form he searched for. It was colors. A new pelt that sang to him, something he could show off in the light instead of lurking in the shadows.
And then - it called to him.
Dreamtime followed, trance-like, as something - a feeling, a whisper - guided him into ever more twisted darkness, the boughs overhead growing thicker and lower until he had to crawl to continue, until he finally reached a pool that shimmered in an odd way. He gazed inside and stood up - a human, fair skin and jet black hair and eyes, dressed for autumn, standing in front of The Starry Night in the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. He gazed at it, stunned that the darkness could be so beautiful. But there was more to see here: Cezanne, Gauguin, and Seurat. Each painting more beautiful than he could imagine; the interplay of light and shadow felt more alive than anything he had ever seen. The colors sang in ways he only dreamed of. He sat on a bench, overwhelmed, and wept a little. This was what he wanted to become.
Next to him on the bench a crystal glimmered, a complex array of purples that seemed infinite when he peered into its depths. He picked it up absent-mindedly as his vision swam back to the swamp. The crystal still sat before him, but the shimmering pool had disappeared. Dreamtime grabbed it and crawled back out of the grove, out of the darkness, and into the light (such that there was), feeling strangely lighter himself, though he couldn't remember why.
That night, Dreamtime had a dream. He stood in a cavern filled with crystals, each reflecting a different image of himself. The ones on the ceiling showed blurry forms he couldn't remember having, but the crystals that lined the cave floor showed a thousand versions of himself. In some he was a kin of only shadow; in others snowy white; and yet in others a riot of colors. He considered each one carefully, as though he was in an art gallery, until he stopped in front of one that felt both familiar and new. Here his dark pelt came alive in a myriad of colors that felt like a whole; his markings made anew in vivid detail. He stepped to this crystal, and then stepped through it, and when he woke the next morning, he was changed.