There are those who tell me how I am not looking at those flowers on the window sill or in that little patch of garden, waving their wavables in glorious techicolour; how looking at these things is akin to breathing etc etc etc.The little things of life which we, the moronic general public, usually miss out on in our ignorant lives spent rushing around making money. Point taken. I do look at colourful flowers, buds, leaves, trees, seeds, and strange foliage under stone bridges. I turn over largish stones and find beautiful glistening worlds, teeming with life and colour. I climb slippery trees to photograph wild orchids and chance upon lines of glowing insects. I go into marshy spaces to see shimmering hovering fireflies. I rummage through heaps of marigolds and mums and mounds of roses mouldering in lush semi-tropical markets. I look at the gossamer wings of dragonflies and powdery butterfly ones. I wade through streams collecting coloured stones and pebbles. I see river crabs flecked with red orange and brown, burrowing in sticky black mud by the side of abandoned ferry points. And the hundred hues of gold and brown on long stretches of sand flanked by green-grey oceans. I gaze at sunlight filtering through drops of opalescent water breaking into tiny rainbows. I look long at sunrises and sunsets and skies plastered with rain colours. All this in my fevered bid to find colour and stash it away in my mind, hang it on my walls, weave it into my life. And I forgot all about a wonderful glorious indescribable colour; a colour without which my colours and I are meaningless. The colour of light.
Posted on: Sun, 10 Aug 2014 08:12:47 +0000