At first it was all colorless and black and bleak. A fog, thick and wet, draped heavily around my shoulders, shading my eyes. Snap. Just another grayscale picture. Clashing objects and harsh corners, things are cut off. Raggedy edges. Now, learn. Snap. Something peeled off the foggy lens, a little clearer now. Blurred in some small spots though. But more color, more feeling. Blue, dark and navy, peeking out. Shapes morph take form. Box and pyramid, spheres, cone and cylinder and every prism. Walk across the world, enrich yourself. View the atrocities, across brown continent and green land and sea. Cross the globe. Meet wise men, wrinkled with Time. Snap. Another blinding sheath ripped off the lens. See the red, thick and orange. Yellow bright sun. Snap. The least sheath removed. A crisp, clear picture. Textures, now. Feel the gritty sand between fingertips, icy cool water lapping at dry toes. A rainbow of colors, like the elegant plumes of a peacock. Rich blues, royal purple, green. Indigo and orange. Shining, gleaming, sparkling. The scent of a rosebud drifting though the swift breeze; it nuzzles your nose and stimulates the senses. Sweet, yet pungent and powerful. Tickling you inside. These experiences burst now that the fog was lifted. No more straining to see, no more compression. It feels so good. Like flitting wings were attached, now you can easily float above. Dance away into the wind, each wing coming with soft, silvery feathers. Encased in golden leaves and dazzled with shining emeralds in platinum, opals glinting. Kick off the ground. But do keep an eye out, sometimes the black dogs attack. Dripping fleas, drool sliding from their tongues. Angry black claws reach out toward your graphite wings. Fly faster, escape. Up past milky clouds, though the layers of the atmosphere. The dogs follow, dank eyes gaping. The smell of their rotten breath is felt on your neck and infiltrates your nostrils. Fly higher on the silvery wings. They are more black now, with dirt sticking. The dogs are catching up! Strain your muscles to escape, feel the burning. Closer and closer. Snap. Rip. The wings are torn off. The dogs snarl loudly with their victory. Now you fall from the clouds. Tears being ripped from your eyes as the wind flies past. Down, down. And a blackout.
Just Another Grayscale Picture
January 9, 2010