The gallery is vibrant.
I know this because I’ve been told.
They said the subjects of the paintings
are brimming with colour,
rainbows practically spilling out of the frames and onto the smooth panelled floor.
I see only the colour around the subject.
Blocked from seeping in,
as though simply touching those sketchy outlines
will leech away the pigment
until nothing is left.
They told me I see the world this way because I’m depressed,
that the chemistry of my brain has gone awry
and muddies everything I lay eyes on.
I don’t think they’re wrong,
but I also think that maybe
I’ve just developed the superpower
to see another dimension.
Treeshallow Musings 