A White Wall Always White

I used to have a white wall. It was beautiful and bare and without blemish. Put it in a museum or at an open house and it would speak of freedom and safety, freshness and purity. There was an innocence to it for the wall had never before left its created whiteness. And within it anything was possible. The imagination would soar with what it could look like and become, dreams that could one day be reality. But what happens when this white wall isn't white anymore? When it becomes stained with color and every white spot disappears? When it becomes wet with red and dark red colors that drip down from top to bottom soon causing all the white to disappear.  My wall is no longer new and pure, it has been exposed to the outside world--touched by color. People come and carelessly paint over my blemish free wall. They expose it to greens and blacks and different shades of gray. They don't see its beauty. They don't see thats how my wall was made, thats the color it was meant to be. They only see emptiness waiting to be exposed to the destructive color wheel.  They don't enjoy it's presence. "That's how I was created," the white wall shouts. But no one hears and the screaming voice becomes quieter as it is slowly covered by the darkness that it now lays beneath.

Soon my wall has every color causing it to have no one color. Each pigment blends together, eyes look upon it, but no one can give it a name. It's identity lost among the array of colors layered atop each other. Though over time the paint fades and loses its brightness the wall does not go back to white. Where will my wall find its whiteness?

When I thought there would be no resting place, no place to call home for my once white wall there appeared eyes that looked with a gaze of complete adoration. They are altogether different than the eyes that failed to give my wall a label.  These eyes stare with a fiery passion and loving intensity as if they've seen my white wall before it was tainted with the hands of humanity. The sun finds its resting place under the earth and then meets the sky once more and the hands on the clock twirl round and round yet the One staring at my wall never leaves. "I see" a Voice says, "I see the white. I see its roots, I know it's origins. White is the foundation, the first layer, I see it."

Where do the colors go in these gazing eyes? Why can they see beyond the ruined surface? How can they see into the darkness of each layer? All other eyes stare and do not see, but these, glistening with flames, look and know the truth of my wall. The voice says once more, "I see because I created it. I am the Maker, the Designer, the Artist of this white wall. This wall I painted with My own hands. No color can taint it; it is perfect, without blemish. An open canvas to imagination, to creativity--to the purpose it was created for. Oh how I love My white wall," the Voice proclaims "Though the world touches it and only sees the blended darkness, I see beauty and purity. I see originality and uniqueness. I see my beloved adorned with the innocence I first painted. This wall is my masterpiece and I will forever call it white."