Mystery No. 2 When the Eyes Lie to Us

Sometimes I sit and stare at something as simple as a color, and the longer I stare, the stranger it becomes. Like, take red for example. It’s just there on a T-shirt, and my brain tells me: “this is red.” But then the question starts to echo where is this red really coming from? Is it in the shirt itself, in the light bouncing off it, or in my eyes interpreting it? Or is it nowhere at all, just a trick inside my head?Science says light bounces, the eye captures, the brain translates. But that explanation doesn’t settle the weight of it. Because if my brain can only read certain wavelengths, then how many other “colors” exist that I’ll never know? Birds see ultraviolet. Bees see patterns in flowers invisible to me. Some animals even see polarized light. And me? I’m locked in this small spectrum called “visible light.” Which really just means “the prison of human sight.”So when I see black, I ask myself: is this really darkness? Or is black just the limit of my vision the edge of the spectrum, where colors still exist but I’m too blind to recognize them? Maybe black is not empty. Maybe black is a fullness so overwhelming my eyes collapse it into nothing.And then the thought digs deeper if I can’t even trust my own eyes to show me the whole truth about something as simple as color, what about everything else in my life? How much of reality am I missing, every second? How many truths hide inside the “darkness,” while I call it empty just because I cannot see?It feels almost cruel that we build our sense of the world around sight, around what the eyes report, when in reality the eyes are liars. They filter. They erase. They simplify. Maybe that’s why the universe feels so silent to me sometimes. Not because it’s truly silent, but because I don’t have the sense to hear what it’s really saying.And then another question cuts through: if darkness is really a color, one that human eyes can’t decode, what does that say about the “darkness” in my own mind? The nights when my chest feels heavy, when depression sits with me. Is that emptiness or is it simply another form of presence, too complex for me to perceive fully?What if every silence, every blank space, every void I’ve ever felt… wasn’t absence, but a spectrum I wasn’t built to translate?That thought terrifies me. But at the same time, it comforts me. Because it means maybe nothing is ever truly nothing. Maybe the things I fear as void are actually overflowing with meaning. Maybe black isn’t a dead end it’s a door I just don’t have the eyes to open yet.

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