Spectrum

In the land beyond the focus point, my sister and I were moving up east from the borderline of sanity. An ancient square lay in the middle of our line of vision. The shadows were beautiful... Mother always told us to stay away from them, but this time we didn't heed her advice... Nobody here knows where the shadows come from, those terrible penumbral tautologies of non-existence. The greater philosophers who live on the borderline have agreed that they're there only to balance the equation for our existence.1

"For every color, there must be an equal and opposite blackness"2

The philosophers say. And they blink.3

You may be wondering what my name is. Well, I don't have a name. Nothing's given me one. I've heard from the mystics that I have been called "white" since the beginning of the colors; since the rainbow first was formed by the creator. The philosophers are always arguing with the mystics about it, though. The philosophers claim that there is no color, only colorlessness. They claim that all color is a form of non-blackness, and nothing more. The mystics are quite passionate about their color, though. They think that everyone has their own, individual color, which can never be robbed from them, and that we will all go back to the rainbow in the end of imagining...4

I don't know, though. Sister went into the shadows, and mother says that nobody ever comes back from the shadows. I don't think I'll see sister when we go back to the rainbow... The mystics say the rainbow has no black.5