I’m trapped in a world of picturesque landscapes. When I look around, all I see is beauty and perfection. The sky is wide, open and awe-inspiring. Jagged lines mark the towering cathedral-like mountains. Shadows contrast the light which pours out like paint on a canvas.
A canvas. White, unmarked and unclaimed - or so it seems. To the painter, no one and nothing existed until the “civilizer” forged upon the blank canvas a world of the sublime, a world of the pictureturesque.
I didn’t always use to view the world in this way. Before my eyes learned to see the beauty in the sharp lines and deep contrasts, I use to see the world as is. I use to be a part of that picture, but now I’m the observer.
It’s quite true that “beauty is in the eye of the beholder”, but I never knew our perception of beauty could change so drastically.
I never intended to learn to see through their eyes - the eyes of the colonizers, the men that painted our world in order to place ownership of it.
It happened so suddenly, this change of perception. It’s like I’ve woken up with a different set of eyes. Yes, the landscapes are beautiful, but it’s frightening as well. I, the Other, now see the world through the eyes of the very people who have “othered” me. What has happened?
note: This is the first part of a short story for the Summer 2013 Writing Challenge. Each day the genre will change, today is 'mystery'.
