A Quiet Exodus – When Colours Mean Everything

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The world is a mad place: noise, brouhaha, merriment, fools shaping my days. Pain follows like a shadow.

Why? Because we hide the one inevitable truth, that the dark tall stranger waits for us all, eventually.

So I walked away. I chose isolation, prayer, a blindfold to save my soul. Death ceased to be a vile enemy and became a constant companion.

Over time, after adjustments and stubborn small rituals, I began to see for the first time. Deprived of sight, I learned to sense color in a new way.

What I lost in optical pleasure I gained a hundredfold in an inner life. There is a whole cosmos trapped inside my being; I have been distracted by the world and could not notice its wonders.

I don’t see colours. They arrive as visitations.

Blindfolded, I discover that colour is not light but liturgy. Each hue a sacrament poured directly into nerve and marrow.

The spectrum moves through me like a procession, and I am both cathedral and pilgrim.

I breathe.

The colours answer.

Red enters first. It tastes of iron and ripe pomegranate. It speaks in a contralto that vibrates along my spine. When red swells, the air thickens with incense and heartbeat. It is incarnation. The universe remembering that it has a pulse.

Blue descends. A cool cathedral built inside my lungs. Blue smells of distant rain and old libraries. It sings in long vowels that stretch time into silk. When blue settles behind my sternum, my thoughts become tidewater.

Yellow flickers like laughter caught in glass. It tastes of citrus and warm bread. It crackles at my fingertips in tiny electric psalms. Yellow does not ask permission. It spills. It is dawn rehearsing eternity.

Green grows without announcement. I hear it as flutes braided with wind through leaves. Green is forgiveness fermenting. It tastes of rainwater gathered in cupped palms. Where green expands, old wounds soften and take root again.

Violet is a threshold. It hums at the crown of my skull like a hidden constellation turning on its axis. It smells faintly of smoke and distant thunder. Violet is like a long lost memory. It presses symbols into me that I cannot comprehend yet.

Black unfolds as velvet infinity. It tastes of salt and starlight. Within black I hear the slow machinery of galaxies, patient and gargantuous.

White is not brightness, but convergence. A chord where every other tone meets and dissolves. It is snow and silence and the soft exhale after confession. White tastes of nothing and everything. It is surrender without loss.

And somewhere beyond the veil of skin and thought, the universe leans closer, speaking in frequencies that no eye could ever hold.
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