White.
It’s all around us, surrounding everything we read, write or draw on.
It is said to be the ultimate color.
The color of all colors.
Some believe that it is nothing, the absence of everything.
An endless room of white, a place that is closed, yet stretches on forever.
If this is white, then what would black be?
Black, as many say, is nothing.
A scar of no color, a place of nonentity.
If it is nothing, then why does it scare us?
Why, out of all the colors, does black have to be evil?
A black line scraped across a white paper is just a line right?
Or, is it an opening?
Does a black line on white open to another world?
Does an endless expanse, beyond the scope of the imagination exist on the other side?
Another world, perhaps identical to ours.
An opposite of our world, a better world.
A world filled with monsters.
Is that why we fear the black of night?
The black stroke of a pen is no different; it may even be more horrifying than we can imagine.