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•We pray in colours. We are preys of colours• I re

•We pray in colours. We are preys of colours• I remember having read a poem about a blind boy, who defines colours more beautifully than the ones with eyes. He describes them in colours of his mind reciprocating with his surroundings. But, then who am I kidding? Each one of us knows that it was written by a writer, who had his very own eyes. Then, do blinds actually see the world the way he described? Or, it was just him creating, ruining, in the course of inventing them. He invented colours, his very own, with names of the older ones. Same goes for all of us, writers. We all have a different shade of happiness even when we are referring to the same yellow daffodils. All of us have a different tinge of sorrow while writing about the same dried leaves of autumn. All of us may refer to the same breeze blowing overhead the hills and yet, for some, it would be an indication of an upcoming storm and for others, a beloved gale of peace. We have different colours, all of us. We invent different colours, all of us. But, due to the inability of differentiating among the shades, we end up calling all of them with the same name. And, then, we pray to that one God, in different ways, in different names, in different colours only to let him acknowledge the presence of a rainbow with more than seven colours on Earth.
•We pray in colours. We are preys of colours• I remember having read a poem about a blind boy, who defines colours more beautifully than the ones with eyes. He describes them in colours of his mind reciprocating with his surroundings. But, then who am I kidding? Each one of us knows that it was written by a writer, who had his very own eyes. Then, do blinds actually see the world the way he described? Or, it was just him creating, ruining, in the course of inventing them. He invented colours, his very own, with names of the older ones. Same goes for all of us, writers. We all have a different shade of happiness even when we are referring to the same yellow daffodils. All of us have a different tinge of sorrow while writing about the same dried leaves of autumn. All of us may refer to the same breeze blowing overhead the hills and yet, for some, it would be an indication of an upcoming storm and for others, a beloved gale of peace. We have different colours, all of us. We invent different colours, all of us. But, due to the inability of differentiating among the shades, we end up calling all of them with the same name. And, then, we pray to that one God, in different ways, in different names, in different colours only to let him acknowledge the presence of a rainbow with more than seven colours on Earth.
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