Everything, white. Crotches of trees. Rooflines. The sky. The world, blinding and pillowed.
Truth be told: I hate white, the color of teeth, bones, hospitals, ancient temples stripped by time of their gay paint. White is death, what’s left after the softer bits rot to loam.
“Ultimate reality” as “white light?” How sterile, how institutional, how cold.
Black is warmth, the charcoal waiting to shed its heat, the world under the down comforter. It beckons with its vastness, drawing you further in. You can gave into the face of darkness, fall into it. Darkness is the screen, the bowl, the mirror upon which your visions dance and play. It is earth, the rotted bits that push up the green shoot.
But better still: green itself. The blue of sky, hydrangea, robin’s egg. The varied shades of brown, the merry glint of gold in the daisy’s eye. The rare flash of purple in the grackle’s sheen, the ground-hugging violet, the lilac.
Neither the page nor the ink, but the sheer reality of what is described, rendered into flesh.