Isn't it? Maybe it's just me, looking for beauty to saturate an inner monochromacy. After all, isn't it true that we see what we want to see?
Because they didn't really see him at all. They saw what they wanted to see.
But, what if my eyes are liars? What if my eyes are taking orders from my wants and longings? What if, somewhere along the path from retina to visual cortex, my blueprints for reality are being hijacked by my latent post-impressionist sensibilities? And suddenly my lines are skewed, and my colours arbitrary. Walls hung with swirling sky and bubblegum sands. All the while, real life presents itself calmly outside my window. Unseen.
There is a little Van Gogh in us all-- we see what we want to see.
Reality won't be a picture I hang on the wall, but a book I don't want to open that will sit on the bedside table beckoning. It will be the last thing I see when I fall asleep. The first thing I see when I wake. And I will have to reckon with it.
And when I do, I will not see what I want to see. I will see heaving shoulders and the paths where tears left salt behind. But,
I will see.