Not everything is black and white. Some things are multi-colored with geometric shapes, fine lines and fuzzy, blurred edges. Sometimes it’s hard to tell where one thing ends and another begins. There may be no edges, fine lines, borders or shapes. There may be times when all these are present, yet they have no name. You can’t describe them even if you try. They just are.
That’s the case with the dilemma I have. Immigration, borders, fences, walls, doors and rooms to wait in are around the peremiter just outside my heart.
I can see them clearly, so bright, the faces of my family, my neighbors. The ones who live in this city, so energetic, magnetic pull me in. Outside the city, the others tempt me, burden me, point arrows at me, hurl giant stones at my mind to try and force me to leave the place I call home.
Out there, it seems orderly and everyone has their place. In here, the faint and glaring colors depend on the time of day or the evening or the night. I can live in whatever room I want to, painted blue or the kaleidoscope I feel most secure in because everything is so complete. Black and white is the expected outfit for Race Day. In the sea of spectators, you won’t stand out. It’s regulation that you blend in with the crowd.
I’m getting farther away from looking at the painting. No longer staring at the list of rules. Do Not Touch. Closing Hours. Do Not Talk Above A Whisper. I decide to take the artwork off the museum wall and leave with my treasure. Whoever owns that place doesn’t need all those pretty colors.