From this distance, everything finally looks quiet. No one is arguing up here. No one is right. No one needs color to feel correct. I’ve seen this pattern before. Not once. Not recently. Civilizations repaint the same night, over and over, and call it progress. I don’t interrupt. I remember. Black was never the enemy. It was what stayed after the noise moved on. What didn’t translate well. What couldn’t be shared. They dressed the lie in color, called it balance. Softened the edges, called it peace. Every shade got louder, every truth got lighter, until nothing had weight anymore. Before all that, people just wanted things to feel simple. Brighter meant safer. Clear meant good. No one noticed what disappeared when black stopped being allowed. I didn’t choose this distance. It happened slowly. One step back, then another, until watching felt safer than speaking. At the beginning, it was beautiful. The colors were kind. No one knew they were covering something. No one knew they would forget what night was for
