Look at that worn out glass. The glass with coloumns of colour. Tinted green, red, blue and orange. There, right there. Right at the edge of you nose. Wait. Don’t you see it?It has been there. All along. Right there before your very eyes. Colouring everything that you see.
Right at the edge of our noses, perches a metamorphic glass. Projected from within the sludgy marshes of the mind. Marshes that run deep. Deadly. And you are already caught deep within its slimy hold. From their depths they sent out hues of poisonous fumes and paint the glass: anger with red, envy with orange. And perching upon the nose they change the coloumns of colours, colours with which we see the world.
That tinted glass is Perspective.
We see the world in colours. No. Let me correct. We see the world through colours. A woman in red, and her friend in blue. A family in yellow, the colour of happiness. A colleague in orange, and yet another one in white, for you like her a lot. My friend tells me the day is a breathtaking golden, as I wonder how the world looks like the white shroud of death bearing down upon me by inch. Look around you. You see. Look again. You start seeing the colours. We paint everything in colours. Like you mark your pills: deadly, daily, only if necessary. That mirage of colours. Colours all around. Colours with which you see the world.
And then there are the cracked glasses where the shards of colour hangs precariously onto the frames. And through the cracks there peeks a world unblemished by colours.
Perspectives. That is how the world is created. Painted in hues of joy, love, gratitude, dissapointment, regret, anger, despondency.
The world has no colour.
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