Remoy Philip

writer. creator. producer.

I am not me anymore...

I wonder what the world would look like if we all suffered from Synesthesia. What would all sound look like? The spectrum of colors would be correlated with the sounds of this world, and are eyes would become even more sensitised to what our ears put off as just another sound.

A dog's gentle breath...
Soft footsteps on wet concrete...
Rain being refunnelled through the limbs and leaves of an oak tree...

Actually, I wish more for a misdirected synesthesia that correlates with peoples' words. When one says one thing or another, their mouths emanate a genteel color of their correctedness or a harsh biting stain for their elusiveness. Each person's truth would hold one color and their lies or half-truths would vary from their originator. "That man is lying; He is sugarcoating it: You're full of shit."

I went searching for truth and I found grey. And instead of making my words black and white, I let them be colored in grey as well, finding myself an absentee for truth.

The world is full of injustice and pain. A very "true" statement indeed. However, I sometimes, more often than not, hide away in those ideals, when in fact, I have the ability to birth the worst evils of all. It is easy to get caught up in the problems of others on a macro scale. It is even easier to get aroused in a rigorous fervor to sanitize the layers of filth off the faces of our culture: a culture born to hate, and a culture created for pain. Yet, the worst enemy, the strongest foe, is me. I am pure evil. My words have mislead so many, and even more so, created a tunnel, a void, where my life, which I am the shepherd of, can be lead astray due to the misdirection of my words. "I want to change the world," should be more often than not, "I want to change myself."

If this whole Jesus thing is true, whether he be social prophet or divinity incarnate, I believe his death was the most poignant act of self-sacrificial liberation because he was not his own enemy. Supposedly, no evil could be found in him; not to anyone, not to himself. His death was for everyone else, but himself.

I do not stray from the fact that I have the best life around. I continue, through all the perilous traps I have created, to regard myself as totally unworthy of the life given to me. I am twenty-three and my prerogative continues to grow, and my mind along with my heart expand more and more with the continual changes life happens to bring my way. I am proud to say, more than ever, "I am not me anymore..."

Be Relentless,