The world around me is bland.
I only see the essence of things, like inked illustrations, the black outlines, and pure whiteness.
The ground is formless, shapeless, a plane of unending whiteness.
I see my feet, crooked lines inked and shaded, hit the white ground, and start walking.
Behind me, faint marks like the residual ink on a blotting paper.
White. The world is white — and pure.
Black outlines, like disturbances, stain its purity.
It used to be a world of garish colors, but I purified it.
Little by little, as I walked over to the lands of absolutes — the land of ideas — the world started to lose its color, its impurity.
But now that I am pure, I find myself pining after the very colors I so methodically rejected.
In my land of white, garish butterflies sometimes flutter by.
On my window is a stick, covered in what I hope is honey.
I hope one of those vulgar insects sits on it today, and I hope to capture it in my heart and reject; this purity.
