Miracles of Matter

A short little idea about the importance of colour.

Her name is not important. She is not important. Think of the whole universe and everyone and everything in it, spinning and fusing with a fierce pattern of wildness and spontaneity, forming the endless cycle of time and distance and space. Think of how every person alive and every person you know has a live as crazy and uncoordinated as yours. She is not important. Not in the slightest, she is less than a speck in the endless bursting, shining, colourful enchiridian that is the universe.

That sounds like she is sad and upset about this fact. That is not true in the slightest. This wonderful fact is the thing that keeps her going, what she repeats over and over in her head, as every step hits the pavement, as she looks into the eyes of the dead-stare people that fill the world.

How can they have no idea what a wonderful coincidence life is?

Of course, that philosophy has no place in the monotone and monochrome hustle and bustle that Is the glorious modern world. Some say art and philosophy has spread and expanded- and maybe it has. But as a mind-set, not as something anyone takes seriously. For her, the blank skies and rolling eyes were a little much for her bursting shining vision of the world. She hid all that colour, all that vibrancy away, in case anyone ever tried to use her for it. The whole spectrum of new things that she locked away sat still in her soul. Not gone; not dead, because how could you kill something like that? It was just waiting.

His story went much the same. A forward thinker in an old thinking town. A head so full of swirling thoughts he couldn’t fathom how to write them down, a mind as beautiful as a sunset hidden in drizzle. He fell through reality without much care or conscience for the world, feeling like he had been wronged by the world’s designer, because surely he shouldn’t have thoughts like his pounding in his skull. Not in the life he lived, hidden in plain sight. He faded into the camouflage, just like everyone else. Although he screamed inside his skull and dreamed of painting a rainbow across the blank concrete lives around him, he did nothing. How could he?

If only I could find a way to be brave- brave enough to force joy onto the world.

His life, and hers, would have continued to drum on, surrounded by the ever-moving crowd, lost to their hopes and dreams. If not for a stumble and a bump, an apology and a compliment, a coffee and a number written on a napkin. If not for nervous tapping feet and shy smiles and dimples and kisses in the rain. If not for movie nights and pillow fights and screaming matches and talks by starlight. If not for each little miracle, then maybe they would never have found their keys inside each other. They opened their souls, piece by piece, knocking down the walls built with so much care. And their vibrancy rejoiced, because they were free.

At last, at long last, the end.

And with it, the beginning.