colorless

In this instant, I see it all so clearly; while colors are such a vivid asset in his book of pictures, I have realized that the reason I do not fit in this title is because I am simply devoid of color. I am c o l o r l e s s. I am nothing but slathered black on a pure white canvas, a wreckage on what was once considered beautiful. He paints explicit hues with no regard to the background. He paints over anything that gets in the way of his artistic view. I was merely brushed aside, placed away into the dark confines of his wild mind, for when he had a project for my misshapen likenesses to be useful.

In my own mind, there was never any doubt that I was, well, anything. I was always an either-or, an up or down, a wrong or right. I was the very personification of polar opposites and it was just a matter of the day who I would come to be. I was always black or white, and I was never, even for him, anything lighter than a shade of gray, where things were unknown and undecided.

Certainties were always a matter to me, but if I was ever uncertain about anything, it was him. He was mercilessly neon and I was unapologetically the absence of life.

k.g