It first began as a haze.
Blurry, colorless, barely seeing a light that glimmers in the dark, and then, suddenly you see a rich array of colors. As if someone came in and gave you a paintbrush, and you began to picture the beauty that you never saw.
That was the innocence.
A child, that saw everything that was good and bad, and the innocence that shrouded around it. You remember it as a walk in an old cobblestoned path, holding your daddy’s hand as he took you to a space that filled Autumn leaves and chilly park benches when you sit on them. You’d see the numerous amount of children running aimlessly, catching a ball or two, and you’d think that they were just like you. And you can’t help but admit that those were the best days.
And then suddenly, again, that shroud of great colors and bright allurement becomes a haze once again.
The haze was not blurry, it was almost not a haze at all. They were lines; black and white lines vertically upright and they seemed to go on forever. The colors dissolved into more boring colors, black, red, white, green, yellow. There were lesser brightness, it was a faded wall of colors.
The colors, after a while, did not seem to be important—only the accuracy of the lines the four walls the stretched within a distance.
That was the truth.
You remember being systemized into a school that honed your general intelligence, and the harsh realities that seemed to be in every mouth of the world (dying people, starving people, angry people, corrupted people). The colors did not matter much.
(There was a rumor that as you grow older your heart dies.)
It went on, dull and lasting, but you did not grow tired of it. Working to the bone and spreading out book-read words to colleagues, friends, and one day it just hits you.
The allure of color, you miss it.
And everything stretches out, as insubstancial fragments that are similar to pieces of glass that cling carefully. You see a chance of light, no longer a boring color, but almost like a bright ray across the line of black, white, and gray.
They tell you, in the rumors, that it is called an idea—“And you can’t kill an idea, can’t you?”
And when the idea is free, it is called change. But one light cannot change the gist of everything. It must be rooted, from the very veins of great criticisms and loud insults that you could possibly recieve.
There is, again, another haze that captures the light of it all.
As a child, you saw the world full of colors, and brightness was alluring. As a child, innocence was present in every way.
As the little spritz of light begin to dissolve once more into the dreary grayscale of lines, you do not lose hope. Because there is an element, a belief of that stray piece of light.
You believe, that this is what they call as reality.
BLUE 