One time in our art class, our teacher said that black and white were not really colors. They are just the existence of the other's absence, though they may (or may not) have been responsible for the birth of the true colors.
As he said that I immediately felt that I knew that all along, but I pretended like everyone, like I didn't know until I got used to the pretenses.
It was when you left that made me understand what the teacher meant. For at the end, we became the existence of the other's absence, though we may have been responsible of the birth of our colors now; from your vibrant shades, to the screaming rainbows and to my dark hues.
Then I felt like we really knew this from the very beginning, but we pretended like everyone else, like we didn't knew until we got used to the pretenses.
YOU ARE READING
END
PoetryEndings are beginnings of beautiful things. #1 on the end-live-begin trilogy.
