I wrote this about a year and 1/2 ago...

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In my fantasies she is wearing a long, silk dress; light lavender, almost white, so sheer that her form is a dark shadow underneath. She is standing, straight but languid, the mirth in her eyes like gold highlights on the dark pout of her lips. Long, auburn hair flows down onto her shoulders, billowing out of its own volition and her hand pushes it back from her face. Brilliant topaz irises form a ring around wide, black pupils. Her breasts are full and perfect, beckoning yet hidden, the subtle allure of her mystery. She wears no eye shadow, no foundation; she is beautiful.

We lay beside each other in a dark night, warm against the encroaching cold, blessed in unity. The stars of heaven shine upon us, the light of angels reflecting the holy glory of God. Mere mortals we, but reaching, touch eternity in that moment.

It is a dream. I awake.

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The world is full of colors, even though we forget they are there. Even in the stifling heat reflected off of the concrete of the densest urban loci, there are subtle shades of the spectrum waiting to be seen. We forget them; we do not look for them and they are lost to us, because then we no longer remember how to see. The grass that grows, every blade colored from the deepest green to a sad, umber brown. The halogen streetlights, casting long shadows in the setting sunlight and at night gathering pools of orange light underneath. And the people, walking every direction to a million different places: the shadows in the creases of the old man’s face, the brilliant purple and pink polka-dotted scarf of the teenage sophist, even the shades hidden in the weave of the businessman’s suit. The world, our world, is color.

Shapes are an interpretation of the mind. A triangle does not exist in reality, it is merely a collection of similar colors surrounded by various others. The world, when viewed without the stress of the mind – when seen as a newborn sees – is an amazing blend of shades and hues. It is light realized, the physical embodiment of a higher dimension, the laughter of energy dancing in a violent realm – this is the nature of all things, but we have dulled our senses to it.

Blue is the color of sadness, red is anger. The passion of lovers is a dark purple, a beautiful violet sitting on the edge of betrayal, which most assuredly is colored black. White, that holy purity, that sanctity towards which the saints of ages past so eagerly trod, is the blank slate of a story untold. It is the beginning and the end of all colors, the emptiness that holds a hope no darkness could ever contain. The story of colors is the novel of our lives; we mark in signs only their passing, never their birth.

A symbol then, a letter – what matter of intention is this? Who was it that introduced language? What foul being spoke first, and so doing, betrayed all humanity, condemning us forever to put in signs and symbols what began as unspeakable, as unattainable. Did we reach for the stars, or did the heavens fall to us? Only this then remains, that the emptiness of life should be so fleeting but how foolish – we hold on to it as if it were truth (what is truth but the denial of chaos) and ignore the hallowed fullness that presses all around.

Wiser men have lived, and died, and now lie rotting in the ground, food for the myriad of creatures that return the favor. This then is utter madness: if we cease to exist, so ends all meaning. Live then and love, for hope and despair are fleeting; charity lasts but for moment and the life of man is but the draught of a breath.