Synesthesia

For every one a mind was made and mine was made to see, day to day, minute by minute, the visions of the truth in me. There in my mind's eye, threaded into my vision, the shapes of sounds and color. They tell me what i already know, but can they tell me things I don't? They love to play, they dance around and usher me come with them. They taunt, they praise, they love and warn, remain a mystery. They talk and I listen, and so do they to me. They say that alls well, whatever you choose, so long as no pain is inflicted upon others. So from where do they come from, and why to me? Is it some sort of pathway drilled to God, or simply neurochemistry? I ask and they do not tell me, perhaps they do not know. All I know are the beautiful blues, deeper than the oceans and brighter than the skies. The absolute greens, the shimmering darknesses, the cautionary yellows and strange, strange oranges. The glowing whites and the paths they draw, up the left, across to right. I've spent years decoding their messages but have a lot to learn. Much of what they tell me they want to keep a secret - or is that just me?

Psychopathy is hung over me like a guillotine by the ones in my life, attempting to sever me from myself, attempting to deny me truth I know to be mine - there are things to be lost and things to be gained, what do I say, and what do I keep to myself? I'm told that I lie, to others and myself, whenever I express my beliefs, my experiences - that I harm with my voice, with my ideals and my actions, and yet I am motivated by love - to care and take responsibility - these are the virtues that I hold dear, so who are they to tell me I'm wrong? Blind and forgotten, their lives have tended toward dust, not the sublime and stellar glitter of golden star-studded substance, the stuff of the laughing heart. They cannot see what I see. It might drive them mad if they did. Some are not meant to be free, but I am, because we write our own fates, author our own destinies, and I am bound by light to be born into the arms of Dionysus to find my way to Apollo. Through the deserts and forests and swamps of the mind I persist and navigate the biomes of a world made by others, a place where everything happens, and one which is impersonal is one in which you must be yourself, and I have my colorful angels to help me. To test me. To allow me to grow. To what end I do not know yet, perhaps simply a certain sense of peace and equality, of purity and openness. If beauty is truth then I shall pursue them both, following in the footsteps of masters, seeking not to follow them but to seek what they sought. Free to love my own way, unperturbed by the glaring eyes of others. In a world where everything happens you must forge your own path unapologetically, prideful, brave - never second guessing yourself because of what others who hate might say. To see the world through the colors of your own mind is to see inside yourself, to know, by means unknowable, the reason for your life - the one inherited by the light. the one you and you alone can call your own, the temple in which you reside, gazing awe-struck at the colored rays of sun that pour through the stain-glass windows, splashing reds and blues across your ceilings walls and floors, forever able to mystify.