every season

Old and new. Together. That’s something to see. The solid stone of the past with the new flowers of the spring. Beautiful symphony. He always wonders about that. Why do people run from who they are? He hides from his past, to a degree, sure. But he has never changed himself simply because of a new geography. Maybe he values the past too much? Maybe that stone building shouldn’t have the high esteem that it does? But he knows this: the past is something to learn from, even if it’s something to run from.

chemicals and photons

By his own account, he’s paint. He walks out his apartment for the penultimate time, and he stops. He’s definitely paint. Light and paint. Mixing the spectrum, they are very different. Paint, an ugly, brown slurry. A milkshake of strength and weakness.  Light, beautiful radiance.  Pure.

He’s jealous of light, how effortlessly it separates. How it can bring out the best with a soft glow or the truth with its power. But paint is life. A concoction of events that he’s seen before. The same ugly shade of brown. But he’s never seen blue like this. Twenty seconds, and he moves on. At least his feet do. He lingers on separation. A chemist, he knows that separating the slurry is not trivial. Light needs just a prism. Paint, a lab. He’s definitely paint.