Essay: On Black

What a brilliant colour black is. What an imperceptibly magnificent rarity this deficiency is. The absence. The lack thereof. The definition of the abyss, of the eternity which rests beneath the surface of impenetrable opaqueness. Truly, the very definition of black is that which absorbs all light, all brightness and luminosity and candlelight and leaves you in a world in which only your mind exists. That which eats up all those rays hoping to lay a blanket of brightness over the unseen, give vision to the blind; hoping to expand and put forth an image of variance and texture and size, saturation and a whole spectrum of light, a veritable Rosetta stone in itself, allowing communication between people centuries apart. 

Doesn’t that excite you? The possibility that the absolute destruction, for most of us, of the most essential building blocks of information is a simple flick of the switch, a covering or two, a tent, away? Isn’t that why we try to tame it as our plaything? Teeming at its very edge, ever peering into it, but we try to escape it whenever it becomes too big, too overbearing or overwhelming. Oh, mediocre, abstract understanding of shape and form! What an ideal construct to hide those things shameful to us. Necessity to reach out and grasp, measure and compare, all of which at a distance become blurrings of the artificial lines of categorization. Fascinating isn’t it. 

But one coverage too much and the set in of fear overtakes you. The black bag over your head, the blotting out of the sun by the earth, the possibility of danger lurking not around the corner, but in front of your very face, the absence of communication of information of any kind. Well, not any kind, just those kinds we use the most, we rely on absolutely, concretely, clear as day and crystal, with our own two eyes, eye-witness to the falsity of illusion. And even there, even in our meager attempts at domesticating this wildness, this imperfect perfection, the thousands of which I simply can’t have enough paper to state, even in that, isn’t there the lack of ability? The weakness of human capability, its utmost limitations coming ironically most to light in attempts to recreate the ephemeral lacktitude. 

Fundamental absence is ever escapable to our touch, but touching the corners of the mind. Grey, onyx, obsidian, ashen, smoky, cloudy, shaded. All demonstrating the feeble attempts we take at recreating that beauty with our own hands. For any ray, any crack, any window or reflection or sheer temperature will shatter that manmade idol in an instant, casting shadows in shadows, an overlap of veils that never truly cover. For shame, that with all our fascination with making the depths of nothing into our own we can truly accomplish naught. Yet, it exists. We know it exists, we all do. Lurking at the edge of infinity, just beyond the peripheral vision of humanity it exists, prowling, giving you that sense of unease when you’re alone, reminding you of your vulnerability. The necessity to shine a light into every corner, to reduce the grasp and reach of the construct and contain it as much as possible. 

Take a moment, think about it. It’s right there, behind you, between your shoulder blades, reaching down. You know it, you can feel it with the only sense capable of escaping it when your vision’s robbed. Look at the shadows around you, looks at the depth you can see, what beyond? What’s outside of your field of vision, what’s there when you can’t see it? We both know don’t we? Humanity’s bane, the greatest fear, the thing we try to kill, for it would drive us to the brink of madness and isolation, creating a separation of sizes unfeasible to imagine in inches. Even those futures in which we see humans having powers beyond belief, and control over life and death and other humans, unbelievable leverage, the main ideal is light. Brightness, whiteness, no dirt in sight, no shadows to hide in. The ultimate in human power is control over contrast. Fascinating. Simply so.