White is a hole never ending. Like the white sheets an angel is dressed in when she is shining a white light in your face and you hear echoes not to follow. White is the blank on the page when I don’t know what to write. It’s what I feel so strongly that I can’t find the words. White is emptiness. White is sterile and uncontaminated, so it must be perfect. Uncontaminated equals perfect. But I think the purity of a perfect white is untrue. I think only hypocrites look for the whitest shade to paint on their walls. I believe home depot calls it “bright white.” I also believe white is not neutral and black is not the opposite. And not because I want to make you think, but because they are the same - just shed in different light. White is the color on your face when the blood drains out. It’s the expression I give you when I look in the whites of your eyes. It’s the look on your face when you realize you have been caught in a lie. I have mixed feelings about white lies. They can save you or break you but never mean much. White is nothing much, it is all the colors spinning so fast they blend together until there is nothing left. White doesn’t leave anything. It doesn’t leave a stain or a mark, and it disappears so fast, you are left wondering if it even was there.