odd, is it not? Black and White ...classical colours, those two are.

black characters challenge the pure white of the page. We take these clean sheets, and place upon them black of our liking. Images, words, creations. There's an almost irresistible quality about the undistorted--we're drawn to it, determined to alter the simplicity. Compelled to put something upon it.

Our mark

Perhaps nothing more than a geometric figure etched thickly into the nearest piece of paper during a phone call, or our name scribbled in twenty-two different styles, or senseless haiku thrown on a dry erase board in the hallway. Whatever the case, we don't need a reason to make a mark. We only need something with which to do the marking.

Marks serve as distractions. This is not to say the mark may not be important... but you lose what you're actually looking at. Sight is stopped. Literally stopped by whatever black has fallen upon that page. ...An experiment--clean off your desk, or pretend it's cleared. i'm sure you have a clean piece of paper near by. (unless of course, i should have a picture of your desk posted here, for an illustration. In which case email me, and we'll have a chat..) So look at that sheet.

What is it? ..It's paper. White. Clean. Empty. Blank. Now, put something on it. Anything at all will do..then look at your desk.

If i walked in, looked at your desk, pointed and asked 'what's that?' What would you say then? Well, it would depend, i should think. If you wrote your cell phone number, you'd say 'ah, my cell number.' Supposing you drew a random geometric object, you'd likely reply 'just a scribbling.' It's not a piece of paper anymore. It's not a clean sheet of possibility. It's a phone number, drawing, sketch, poem, letter, reminder. It will never again be seen as 'just a clean sheet of paper'. You've left your mark.

And what if one's piece of paper should be covered in marks... Yours, and mine, and Theirs. Clothed in thick, black. One would try to reveal the page beneath--to rediscover Truth, which has been hidden by the scribblings of other people's minds and perceptions. i find myself doing just that ... i put these words on this page in hopes of rediscovering what's real--a piece of myself.

Though, what if it's meant to be--the marks are meant to cover our pages? ...We're meant to be defined by the scribblings of the people we've met. That is who we are. We're not meant to be entirely what we were to begin with. Sure, we still have what we began with ... the paper that started it all isn't gone, but we've grown within its opportunity. Now we've transformed into something more, with the help of the people who've impressed upon us their piece of black.

Their marks.

Black and White ... simple colours, those two are. In between are the
shades of grey.

My memories are in grey, black, and white ... with splashes of highlight: red, flesh, hard brown eyes ... just enough, like a flash on a camera, indicating what's being remembered. Almost like dreams--dreams from yesterday coming back as i look at the floor by a sofa, or a table waiting to be set, or a sidewalk. Not that sofa ... any sofa. And the room transforms to shades of grey as the remembering begins. Even voices touch the air like breath on a cold, frosted morning...in humble cloud of pale white, as proof of the breath exhaled, just moments before.

Black and White ... and grey.


why can't i breathe in shades of grey?