Sometimes, I am a canvas, canvasing for beauty with smeared ink and broken paint.
Perfection is a stolen story, every flaw has a floor and we must walk into our relative definitions of outright adornment.
Colour is a mask, I wear mine to be still in troubled waves and be steel, in rumbling caves of evil memories.
Colour is my “peace, be still,” I say like my master.
Colour is my piece of existence that I can share and still remain whole. If you smear my colour. You smear my thought and you smear me, I would not be ashamed or mere.
My colour heals me, too, like myrrh.
Every shade is a secret keeper. Every shadow is a wounded thought waiting to be healed, every patch of light is sight. If I am a blurred image, I am hiding, if I am a bold image, I am brooding.
See, I come to many people in many faces, I am not GOD, but I – like GOD – am beautiful and full of bounty – colourful.
So let it be written, so let be done.
Shālōm. – –