I see colors on the backs of my eyelids.
If I am outside and squeeze my eyelids shut while lifting my face towards the sun, I see purple—a purple I have otherwise only seen in Photoshop—a rich, glowing, bright, deep purple that looks alive. Within this purple are tiny lavender flecks, dancing around like amoebas under a microscope.
If I raise my eyebrows, teasing my eyeballs with the prospect of opening but keep them sealed shut, everything turns green. As I raise my eyebrows higher and higher, as if I were being told the most ludicrous story ever, I see amber, burnt orange, and then the bright sunshine orange of Buddhist monks’ robes.
I have no expectations of this raucous rainbow. I take no credit or blame for it. I never wish the purple was blue, or some other color. I don’t resent green for not having turned to amber sooner. I never suspect that burnt orange is a result of one of my mistakes or that the bright orange of the monks’ robes could be better somehow if I were just smarter, more focused or more successful. I don’t wish the colors would do anything but what they do, or be some other way than they just are.
Peace and freedom, standing like an idiot, smiling at the sun with my eyes closed.