A somber mesmerized delicate fool caught a glimpse of the delectable shades of gray that covered the walls of the building where he used to amuse those who waddled in with artificially smelling green that crumpled and ripped whilst being handled by unaffectionate hands. He could still see the spectrum, the array, of jewel like fragments of light, sparkling across the floor, along the walls, and deep within the recesses of his mind. If memory served him right, the old place used to be so overtly beautiful, filled to the brim with colorful people and objects, yet this supposedly prime level of extravagance did not sway the old fool to stay. Rather, he was much more attracted toward the scales that existed outside this world of bland happiness.
Two summers ago, yes, around that time, I the fool left the keyboard of this silly hall in order to travel beyond the world of color and factitious delight. I did not yearn for darkness, nay, but upon my dismissal, perhaps even far before then, I sought the intricacies of the ineffably expansive linearity of complex yet simplistic differences between the often forgotten distinctive tones of gray. The gray scale spoke to me in far grander overtones than the false kings of optical seduction. It’s elegance came forth from its ability to be beautiful without calling attention to itself. Color on the other hand, the muddled form it is, is a massive amalgam of cacophonous and rude little children of pigment that all vie for the attention of the motherly eyes that graze over the wall, canvas, or what have you. Yet little gray scale remains still, in the corner, watching his supposed siblings leap over one another. Upon closer inspection however, the eye sees the growth of poor little neglected gray scale, it sees him grow and grow and grow.
Yet this fool. Oh, this fool. He see’s not, the truth of the vibrant jewels that stand aside old gray scale. Indeed they are obnoxious and chaotic as they clamor over one another as they try to stay in the light. But together, they are a concoction that transmutes itself into an image of anarchic organization, and a beautiful opalescent one at that. The single, idle gray scale, he but remains silent for he sees the truth, but he remains independent in the eye of this old fool. A fool that has been out of the race since the race started, a negligible fool, he plays by himself, up and down the scales he goes, why would he need the other’s, when he himself can be all. Yet a question arises.
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