The Beauty of a Paradox

I have a sadness. So compelling it drives me to be still. No world can move me, no tears can. No word can touch me, no face can. A sadness so compelling it drives me to be sad. A life so meaningless that it can only be called a void. A void no one can fill.

I long so much to be understood.

Why does it have to be that I need to succeed in typical things to be happy in a typical way?

I am happy in my sadness. In my world of grayness, I can only imagine the sorrows of black and white , and color loving people. Yes, they might feel joy, but in extreme joy there can only be extreme pain. And I can only remember so much as when I felt the same. So many things to be hurtful, yet so few to rejoice about.

Perhaps I have been catharized, dulled to the very end of my bones, numbed to the very sense of which I enjoyed. Yes. Perhaps I have been turned into granite. Unfeeling for so long.

Or am I?

In my grayness lies my safety. To feel neither joy nor pain. I am free, it seems; of the typical troubles of humanity. That endless search for eutopia and everything it holds dear. I have overtaken everyone in the race and gotten to the finish line first.

No one here.

Not a single soul in sight.

Have they all taken the wrong path, or am I the one who lost my way?

I can't be wrong. My assumptions of the universe can only be so true.

That time is a circle, and we are our own creators. That time does not end but goes back to the beginning. And in that beginning, we are our own creators. We created time, and we created space.

But I seem to forget that in the gloriousness of my solution lies the dillema. If everything comes to a circle, where does it all start? In a timeline that goes around, you cannot insert something that is not already there.

But that is the beauty of paradoxes.

It cannot be answered, but you can spend your whole life trying to.

Or you can sit here with me in my grayness and ponder:

Is there any other color here besides gray?