What do you see in front of you—

A white wall, or maybe even off-white plaster?

Or should I paraphrase, and repeat myself

In a matter so that you would understand more clearly

The thought process of the inner workings of a mind

Which has too many years before it to develop to its full potential?

Now, before you, what do you see—

A simple white wall that has not been drowned in paint?

I’ve been told for a while now that a white wall is bare,

But I choose not to believe that. Not really.

I choose to believe that a white wall is drowned in color.

Now, you can look at it and say that there isn’t any color on it;

That it’s just a simple white wall like any other white wall

In any other room in any other house on any other street.

But I beg to differ, my friend, for the wall is drenched in colors,

Colors that would make you eyes water with a salty bitterness,

Colors that would make you dab at your eyes with the pink-toned flesh

Of your fingers, or a handkerchief, if you so happen to have one.

Now, back to the wall. Is it white now, or are you choosing to believe that

It is drenched in color just so that I can stop talking?

The look in your eyes makes me believe that the latter is true.

But bear with me, if you can, and just look at it. Look.

Can you see it now, or do you still not see? Fine, I will believe that you don’t see.

It makes my job much harder.

Now, the white wall may look white to you, but to me, it’s full of color.

Of reds the shade of pomegranates and theatre curtains,

And yellows like sunflowers and cornstalks,

And blues like the skies that slip into the blackness of space.

And when I sit back and stare at the wall, and see all of the colors

That are splashed on it, I think to myself,

‘Why, isn’t that the prettiest wall in all of existence?’

And sometimes I would say it out loud, and people would look at me

As if I were delusional, or I just wasn’t seeing clearly that this white wall

Is what it is: a white wall in a room in a house on the street.

But deep down, I know that the wall is more than that.

It’s something so warm and inviting that even the

Most ruthless tyrant must look at it and lower himself to the floor,

Weeping like a newborn child in the night calling for his mother.

Something so seductive that it brings the lonely office worker great pleasure.

Something so chilling that it makes the little boy in the treehouse

Evaluate what it truly means to be a child in this world.

Do something for me. Close your eyes. Don’t hesitate—just breathe.

And drift down the river when you have the chance, and just relax.

Once you have it, open your eyes. When I see your smile, I will know.

Is the wall white to you now?