CK,
You are dawn-bringer; your eyes being the dawn. They shine to illuminate the eclipse of my mind. They bring heat to thaw the avalanche of my thoughts. They gleam life in the lifeless. Whether they lost it, or never had it, to begin with. You rise with the audacity that night will always fade, because you bring the light, yet, night returns as you slumber.
We are not people; we are colors; we are colored crayons in a box. You are the white crayon. White, an innocent color to most, yet I see differently. White is not innocence, nor the absence of corruption but rather, the embodiment of everything. White is a color that combines everything we know, everything we see, into something pure. Pure is devoid of something; the absence of something perverse. This is not the case with you. You are the white crayon; it is not the color that is everything, it’s light. Light is everything, specifically white light. When the three primary colors are combined, we see the white light: the observable universe.
We are colors and each of us plays a role. There are no connotations to light; it simply is what it is because it cannot be anything else. To be pink is no different than to be green or blue. The exception is white; the embodiment of all light.
I am not wise, nor intelligence. I see myself as resourceful and possessing a wit. But not in a way that you may think. My wit is not humor or quick thinking. There are no quirky comebacks in my mind. I am witty in how I see things. I am not wise, but honest; I only speak what is true to my eyes. Not my sight, for I am without a body. I am a person, no, a voice floating in the darkness of my mind. I don’t see the light of day there, nor do I want to. I wander a cobblestone path without sight, yet I know where I’m going.
What you don’t understand is who you are, or rather, who I see you as. You are the dawn but also the moon and I am the ocean. My tide sways higher and lower in your light. You are the stars, bringing light to our world; something only seen after time releases you from its grasp. You see, you pull me towards you when I thought I could leave. Even if time prevents me from calling to you, I am still pulled towards you. Like the Earth pulls us towards its center, your gravity pulls me towards you.
But our physical bodies mean very little in the cosmos of my mind. Who are we but voices and ideas attached to something that walks through reality? We are all drifters in a sea of lights. We are all drifting, towards one another, to become: white. When we collide, our physical bodies will never touch. It is what we represent that mixes to become whole; some people call it a soul, others personality, and still further called chakras. I call it our color.
Sincerely,
James
