Joshua

Posted Saturday, October 16, 2021

2y

INTJ

5

4

True Colors

What am I, truly? If you hold me to the light, what will you see? Will you see the same things that I do? No. My nature, my feelings My thoughts, my desires My memories, my essence You won’t see that. You can’t see that. What you will see are the colors they leave behind. Maybe you’ll focus on the cardinal reds Burning with the rage pent up from consistent betrayal. Or the charcoal gray of abandonment Left cooling in a pile after the flock migrates. If you try to care, you might notice the eminence purple The mercy and patience gathering together. Or the Hunyadi yellow of adaptation Taking old things and making them new. Then there’s the ultramarine blue of hopes All scattered, or trampled on, or fading to gray. There’s a significant void of simply black Where certain pieces of my existence never lived. If those were sparked up, brought to life again I wouldn’t be the same person anymore. It wouldn’t be me. Now, there are many other colors on display. But those colors are more difficult to interpret. Because there isn’t an interpretation. I will always have a madness about me But not necessarily a method. You see, I cannot be defined by a single set of colors. Any attempt to understand me in my entirety Is doomed for failure, unless you’re omniscient. Any attempt to categorize me Under a particular label or role Will fail to capture even that part of what I am. Because the colors are all connected. You cannot hope to understand my silvers Without also understanding my browns. There is no gentleness Without also the passion. My sorrow is fueled by my joy. My jealousy stems from my loneliness. My compassion is a result of my bitterness. And my love? My love is hiding behind a nebula, a fortress of distrust. I have amassed an army of calculations Squadrons of processes and safeguards Contingencies for my contingencies. But I often don’t inform the military Of where my heart wants to wander next. It isn’t fun to always be fortified Isolated away from the rest of the world. But my experiences warn me There’s no goodness to be found out there. Because everyone perceives colors in their own way And no one sees them identically. So no one will ever understand what I mean When I offer them my silver pieces Or when I wear a star sapphire on my hand. But they will try, and blame me for their misunderstanding. There is no comfort to be found in noodles. There is no love to be shared from a brother. There is only the selfishness from the flowers Doomed to blow away in the haunted winds. There is only the ocean of deceived fish Schooling anywhere that you aren’t. This world is full of radiance A prism dancing in the sky. There are so many patterns to me So many patterns around to see. I can recognize a lot of them. Like the ugly stains that churches intentionally put in windows. Or the off-whites painted over The scrapes and truths people are ashamed of. The vivid pink of romance forced down your throat. The blended shades of green that purchase corruption. What is more difficult to recognize Are the gradients my memories choose to adopt. What was once a single, specific color Has now turned into its own spectrum Which reveals more than there might actually be. Not to mention the contrast I might choose Should I decide to change my attitude over the course of an hour. Such is the difficulty of understanding a person. Each aspect of their personality and existence Displays a rainbow under very different rules. The more familiar you become with one side of them The more difficult it can be to appreciate the other sides. Our canvas can change. It can fade, or be repainted Or even be damaged. What goes on that canvas might be intentional Or it could very well not be. Unintentional spots or spills or strokes Should not be looked into for deeper meaning. But they are often difficult to recognize as unintentional. Consider then, how foolish it is To be offended by my nature. My feelings, thoughts, desires Memories, essence or actions. Yes, even my actions. I made those for a reason. I see a meaning behind the art they leave behind. And you do too. But we don’t see the same picture the same way. You can try to explain your interpretation But my eyes will never see it through the same lens as you. Even if I could, I wouldn’t process it the same way And you can’t make me. So next time you try to tell me what my true colors are Remember that I’m not an antagonist in my own story. But now, you are. (edited)