Color is a radical concept in a world that finds comfort in black and white. Shades of grays are pushed aside- if it’s not holy then it’s sinful. If you’re not skinny, then you’re fat. If you’re not white, then you are simply “colored.”
Part of me finds myself sinking back into the little white houses- the ones with the picket fences that the occupants claim are pure American- often forgetting that someone else built them. In classrooms they teach that color is to be ignored- that we are all suddenly blind- or can be taught to be blind.
Teach the children to put on the blindfold. It’ll erase the color.
White wash the identify. If it all looks the same, then we’re all equal.
If I ignore the black then maybe it will go away. Maybe they’ll just become colorless- more like us.
Emotions can serve as a form of color. Whenever the world gets red-hot, the cold, blue people sit back and tell the world that they’re being nonsensical. “Why are you mad?” the blue people say,”there’s nothing wrong in our world.”
“It’s always been blue.”
The world often forgets, though, that without all those different tones of color- all which mean different things to the possessor- that people would rarely hold colorful lives. The world would loose texture. People would loose passion.
I find it ironic that in a world where people tell you to “find yourself” that the very act of doing so is considered so disruptive.
Simply too colorful.