Colour my World

Wim Wenders is responsible for my love of light.  His cinematographer's use of light in "Wings of Desire" enabled me to find new depths in its beauty.  On many occasions since, light has forced me to stop and bask.   In how it caresses the edges and corners of solid objects; how it dances erotically across the surface of liquid;  how it undresses the darkness as the sun creeps its way into the dawn.

Quite ironic, considering light's relationship to my handicap of color-blindness.  I often wonder if we see the same colors.  I've been trained culturally to know that the color of sky is "blue,"  but is my blue the same as yours?  

I have a perverse idea for a story in which the color-blind protagonist suffers a head injury, which enables him for the first time to perceive color like the majority of the population.  This abrupt alteration of his reality, of rainbows turned inside out, slowly drives him insane.
On the turntable:  Karsh Kale, "Broken English"