Dear Black,
Not every moment in our lives is important. It is not as is every moment should not be lived with lust, as it most often is, but rather, there are only certain moments that count. You may be uncertain, like I, but I think you know this to be true.
I change all the time. Every Moment it is as if my cells are crashing into each other. They divide and then multiply to compose a different being; fluctuating and changing color in the light. I am infra red and hazy purple; sometimes I am blinding sky or the green in my fathers eyes. I have never been the translucent color of a moths wing or a sultry deep maroon, though I am often dark as black.
But Black, to me you are the best color of them all. You are night, the uncertain or the unknown, the space between my fingers just close enough to touch. Your color is the shade of an opportunity missed; because I was black and so was he. But even through the darkness I could see that his eyes were gold and amber hues and his smile the brightest of yellows.
Oh, Black. Oh, confused and frightened Black.
I love you though you hurt me so.
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Illustration to a prose poem I wrote two years ago whose relevance seems to have popped back up in my life. Two years has brought me a lot of knowledge and courage. And though I am still often dark as black, i am not longer frightened to chase the light.
Grateful for the moments that count because those are the ones that change our lives.
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Dear Black,
Illustration Marker and Colored Pencil on Paper.
22x9.5in.
