I can see it when I close my eyes: the vast expanse of dimension rich hue. Some parts, dark as night, thick and meant to show that there is beauty in sorrow. Others, bright as day, thin and born to reveal, to uplift, to shine, to glow. It is not the color of the tears we cry, but it is the color of the lines upon which I write you this story. It is not the color of the water in our ocean, but it is the color of the ocean itself, which is a conglomeration of the crystal clear droplets we know. It is this clarity through which we may see and shed reality, witness both its beauty and its sorrow, and attempt to forget our wrongs and the wrongs of people as a whole; as a conglomeration.
Blue is not the color of the tears we cry. Blue is not the color of the water in our ocean. That is clear. But blue is unclear. Complex. Interpretable only by those who may see clearly.