The chameleon conformist; he vigilantly adjusts and positions a colorful smoke screen for the world to see; a front for the purpose of carrying out his personal agenda; he acts in accordance with societal norms to mislead the naked, unsuspecting eye. He is, in all truth, completely anti-social to the core while in the privacy of the unremitting darkness that plagues him; a place the devil himself would even feel uneasy. Behind the smoke lives the shell of man who appears to have it all; behind the smoke lies an empty void yearning for fulfilment. This man aversely survives, lifeless on the inside; hollow; robotic and pre-programmed to carry out essential obligations to preserve the sickness holding him hostage; the sickness that is continuously at liberty to haphazardly course all throughout the captivity of his veins.
His primary objective never changes color; he is the non-conformist in regards to the pre-destined arrival of his daily escape – his outward conformity allocates the sustainability of his interior rebellion – his daily mission never waivers off course; he blends into the background the same way a chameleon would elude its fierce hunter; he doesn’t wish to be seen; he doesn’t hope to be heard – the world and its incessant vexation gradually drifts from his consciousness as he irrevocably ingests the pernicious remedy, subsequently releasing a distorted sentiment of well-being and an immensely sought after sigh of alleviation.
The first layer and most prominent color on his suit of acquiescence is green; the green of a rewarding and gainful career which serves as the lifeline to the truth of his darkness; it’s the glue that binds together the whole charade and paves the way for its continual operation; without it, he is vulnerable and exposed; without it, the authentic blackness of all his little carefully crafted designs are open for the world to see; credibility eradicated; reputation wrecked. The green of greed invites envy into the mix; he wishes to be anyone other than himself; he fantasizes about what it would be like to have it all – the big house with an ocean view, a luxury vehicle for each day of the week, a multitude of women just a phone call away and ever-lasting freedom to do as his little, black heart desires; he presumes that would be the answer to his issue of contentment, but somewhere deep down in his being he knows he would only crave still more; all the water in the world isn’t enough to satisfy an unquenchable thirst.
Anticipating its moment to shine through the voracious green exterior is the second in his array of covert defense layers; it’s soaked a deep blood red; a red labeling his path of destruction, his internal anger, and the emotional damage to all those he crossed paths with along the way; it’s his defense mechanism to keep others at a distance; a warning not to approach; it keeps him locked in a little box all alone – his safety net; he unknowingly becomes a ticking time bomb; he craves human connection, but in his mind, the risk outweighs the reward – the thought of rejection or abandonment is too overwhelming to handle; so he just sits silently by his lonesome as the world keeps spinning; life passes him by; he can’t get in the mix; the torture is unbearable; he intensely prays for it to be over – his prayers for relief are answered; the answer is no; the heinous cycle continues with no end in sight.
The yellow of his deceit and deception is prepared to reveal itself directly underneath the blood-soaked red of desolation. It’s how he maneuvers his way through the daily grind of a dilapidated existence; dodging and weaving, he meticulously spins a web of lies around himself; a shield built to protect how he thinks his world should work and what all the players in it need to comply with to best suit the motives of his self-interest. He becomes trapped in his head between the worlds of wanting to be left alone or forgotten and yearning to be endeared or understood. Building up these falsities becomes his only purpose for waking up in the morning; he has to maintain the madness created in desperate attempts to fit in; he has to nourish the misrepresentations generated during his trials and tribulations to fill up and seal the emptiness perpetually lingering inside. The way he goes about it never changes; he never redirects off course. It’s always been a losing battle, yet he chases after the idea of fulfillment nevertheless. Insanity interpreted.
Deep and sheltered in the core of his being lives black; the black he painstakingly attempts to conceal from the world time and time again; the blackness of his cold, tarnished heart and the darkness it constructs, spreading throughout every facet of his life with the zest and insidiousness of an infectious disease. Its power and authority is unmatched; surreptitiously he meanders about; he feels most comfortable traversing through the cover of night, protected under its blanket and veiled by his matching cloak. In the darkness he is his genuine self; stripped down and bare to the bone; in black he is a man using every resource at his disposal to hold himself together as he inescapably falls apart…