It's easy to look at this kind of attitude with disdain, yet the root of this attitude creeps so easily into our daily thoughts. Perhaps you are like me and stop yourself from feeling a great deal of jealousy of the extremely wealthy. After all, as we all know, life is about more than reaching financial heights. Still, subtle dissatisfaction with our lives invade our thoughts without us being aware of it. Here's a few examples of what I mean:
- I wish I was taller.
- Must be nice to be able to grow a full beard like that.
- Of course they got far in life, look how much more motivation they have than I do!
- You know, I would be a lot more productive if I could get away with so little sleep.
- Why can't I have a relationship like that?
- I bet she didn't have to go through as a child what I had to.
- Why did he have to die?
- Of course, it just had to rain!
- It would have been nice to be born in a place where winter wasn't so cold.
- He does half the work as I do and gets paid twice as much!
- No fair that we all have to be inconvenienced because of a couple of idiots' mistake.
- Life is too short.
- Aging sucks.
Where am I going with all of this? Well for some strange reason I felt inspired to write a poem, and so I'll let it do the talking. Forgive me, I am not a practiced poet:
I am the colour blue.
I am not the whole of blue,
not even close
I am no more than a misshapen dot,
a dribble of paint from a brush that left the canvas too late,
or too early,
it doesn't matter.
I am not even a deep blue,
a strong blue,
a bold blue:
bold enough to convey
or sharp decisiveness
If a great blue sky covers the canvas,
I do not know it:
I cannot see it.
Little matter, I'll never be a part of it,
even though I am blue.
Were I the colour yellow, I would hold some beauty.
Gallantly glimmering glory.
Proudly portraying splendor,
it doesn't matter,
because I am blue.
Even green is better than me:
Vital, breathing green.
Perhaps if I were red,
Being a dot wouldn't be so bad.
I could be glamorously angry,
Ruthlessly romantic in my redness,
or perhaps even a cute freckle.
There's nothing ornate about my form,
No vivacious swirls,
or pronounced, purposeful roundness
Of course, I can't be straight:
no, no, no no!
That would bring far too much attention to me!
Me, a pasty blue,
surrounded by darkness.
I do not much like black,
Ugly, empty black,
though it hugs my edges.
it's all pointless.
Gray is not much better:
It is a lie,
Pretending to be pure as white, next to black,
Yet it clothes itself in the very darkness it contrasts.
There's too much black and gray.
There's not enough white.
Combining all the colours but not becoming dark,
not becoming black
Smiling, the artist painted.
Magically pouring life into colours,
colours into life.
Though living, they could not see what he could,
They only know what he told them,
displayed to them,
as he displayed them.
A small glimpse
of a small part
of his spectacular masterpiece.
every speckle of paint was deliberate,
an outpouring of his perfect plan.
He didn't need to,
But he wanted to
Interact with blue.
"Who are you, blue,
to say what is right to you
I drew you, blue,
So I want you.
I drew you blue to reflect the very sky you cannot see.
w i d e,
full of many colours of blue,
some look like you,
but they are not you.
I love yellow, green, and red too,
just like you.
They look good,
just like you.
You are not bright,
bright as white,
Bright as I.
Yet you are still bright,
bright as the sky.
Soon I will show you the sky,
Soon I will show you much,
Much more than you now see.
For now I want your trust
Trust in my brush
Trust in the end it will all be beautiful.
Though you are surrounded by dark,
You are part of something magneficent!
For I do not make anything less than glorious.
Trust in my brush,
and be the best blue you can be,