If love is blind, as it should be, it sees no colour, and its own shade is on display for those who are not in love. I began my love in blue and pink as defined by the gender-police. My own colour was green, albeit the season of spring had rolled out since paving for the winter where shades of grey had gained notoriety and grace.
If love is blind, it reads the temperature. Rainbow is a warm black. Smoking gun. The sacrifices stream gooey penumbra.
Am I afraid of black and other darker hues, and hence try to love those harder to win over my fear? In the Bible, dark hues represent sin and the Earth, among other things. What is more sinful and earthy than love, because love likes a blackboard to illustrate illumination? It is the black light in which the hidden inks become visible. Did the caveman cower at the sight of a fire? The caveman won its power, tamed its odds. What do I fear? Love itself?
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Black, obsidian, is not quite black any longer in the modern time, if it ever has been so at all. I tilt my head, crane my mind, and even on a moonless night in a powerless city, I see grey and white noise in 3D sprawled across the existence. The way an insane saint may shiver at the sight of silver lightning amid the dark clouds or one singular floating Nimbostratus on a clear day, I flounder in the presence of omnipotent beauty. Love, if anything, is a grey sky, complex and highlighting the edifices of expectations, pure and polluted, simple and twisted. It is a responsibility that matures you, and if you are in love, you cherish the greying.
(Views expressed are personal)
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Kushal Poddar former editor of the Words Surfacing magazine, and an author
