I See Color

I’ve been told I shouldn’t see color. I disagree. I see color, the red of roses, the blue in the sky, the green of the grass. I see the shades of gray in a goose’s feathers, the yellow bleeding into reds and oranges of a sunset. I see the blush of a young girl’s cheeks, the dark as night complexion of the Adonis down the street.

I see color and I am grateful for the blessing. Whether that color is a person’s skin, paints on canvases or the mud below my feet, those colors hold value to me. They help me describe what I see as beautiful, as l envision as ugly, as dangerous, as peaceful.

I have a theory about all these people who don’t want us to see color, particular in a man’s skin. Those people are either lying to themselves or ashamed to admit color is a deciding factor on how they perceive people. They equate color with discrimination. And to be honest, there is discrimination in color not because one is inherently better than another but because everyone reacts differently to colors based on their own preferences. I respond to white roses much differently than red ones. Why would I not respond on an instinctual level to tan skinned as opposed to pasty white?

While I admit to having discriminating tastes in color, that does not mean, nor should it mean for anyone, that I think my preferences are better than anyone else’s. Nor does it diminish the value of the person behind the color. It is merely a reaction to the color just as white walls make me feel confided and blue walls sooth me.

If we judge anyone or anything purely because of color think of all the delights in life we would miss out on. Kiwis come to mind as the perfect example. The outside is anything but appetizing, but the inside is oh so sweet and tangy.

So, yeah, I see color, and I’m damned proud of it.

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