I'm left in a village of color. The signs of fruitfulness fall upon my lap. For I'm here among the colors and the colors are smiling back. I'm matched with the sky above and the ground below. Walking among the painted ceilings and mismatched palette of a brush upon the cement mass of walls. It's among the peace signs and the poses that I recall the greatness of color. The way it soothes the colorless pupil. The way it exposes the normalcy of a grey wash-can or a rust-stained sink.
I wonder if the artist behind the color knew where to start
the color and where to end it. Without the color, is life dull? Does the artist find himself in a muted world full of greys and whites? Does the color brings attention to the muted, the solemn, in hopes of greater sense of illusioned happiness? Maybe he wants to bring attention to the color escaping the paintbrush and dripping into the air around him, as I pictured it. That color can follow me to the most unexpected places. I'll allow the green to chase me from the fields of grass or the orange to eat up my skin and make it brown. I'll let the red pour from my lacerated elbow as the purple replaces the body's punctured spots. The blues can play among the whites in that big place up there and I'll watch on, wishing I was a part of the party. The clear of the rain can splash upon the peach of my brow while I sing songs of yellow. I'll dance among the leaves of pink and wash myself in the turquoise. Ah the turquoise! I could go on and on forever like this.
"Paint me and I'll paint back" I'll say.