perhaps it is never my work that you do not understand, but only yourself. the prism with which you view the world is distorted beyond recognition rendering you incapable of seeing anything for what it is. it's not wrong, just different. your blue is my red. as my ideas refract, they scatter and leave you clasping at shadows. you see the twinkling of the full light spectrum, you understand the rainbow, but only look at it as something abstracted from you. you do not feel the light rain as it brushes over your cheeks. and after staring for some time, you turn away, realising you are soaking wet and can not remember why you were standing in the rain in the first place. the colours are there. they are always there. your colours too. and the bliss when our rainbows converge. their luminosity knowing no bounds.
when you remember that it is same the light which shines through me as through you, the same source refracting and reflecting, only then you may be able to begin to understand me and my work.

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