A Brief History of BLACK

What does a person do, when they have no pen, no ink for a pen, no paper for a pencil, no paint, no canvas, no palette, but only their thoughts floating in vacuums in the head..!? A person with her wild imagination, placed in the naked wild, and then, doesn’t even know where she is!

Right now, she is (supposed to be) hurting herself, bleeding the bloody red, slit opened by the shining steel. The red is her paint, herself being both the muse and the canvas. But she is not hurt. Her failure succeeds her, and she succeeds at all failure of life-attempts. Everything takes on a life of it’s own, except her own little self. And when she forgets how it is like to ‘be’, they start losing memory on ‘what to be’; and thus the Red, rather than granting her some hope for life, takes some more away from her.

My canvas for now, is all black, and so is my paint. But that is the only canvas, and this is the only paint I have. Yet, I need to paint. I need to see for myself, how Black looks against the Black(er). Blackness has never rendered me blank, but given me more space. It’s not always the same, for even Black has its tones, though varying minutely, and thus the variations not always being visible to the nakedness of the eye. But then again, is it naked enough to attract whatever it chooses to gaze at?

Or maybe not. For the Black of the eye hidden behind the veil of this nakedness, manages to identify the tonal differences of the Black without. The Naked is so tastelessly plastic, so colourlessly transparent, that this Black pierces through it and looks right across!