Paris tried.

He yearned, deep in his heart and soul, to love the light.  He wanted the warmth, comfort, and radiance of its touch.  He longed to shine upon his fellow man, and wished that he could emanate a halo of uplifting positivity upon his world.

He tried to infuse it into his clothing.  He took the light and spun it into yarn.  He then stitched it upon his jackets and jeans, hoodies and hats, even sweatshirts and socks.  But the emblems found themselves undone, and the marks of light gone from the garb.

He then tried to paint with the light.  He drenched the filaments in the golden fluid. But the brush would not hold the color from palette to easel.

He poured it upon pancakes, spread it on bread, and sprinkled it on dinner.  All done to try to infuse it into himself.  But no syrup stayed, no layer lingered, and no seasoning left an impact.

He tried to ferment the light.  He measured his concoction and waited until the natural processes concluded.  He thought that, at a minimum, it would give him temporary bliss.  Yet he rejected the libation, and retched horribly after consumption.

He thought that money might hold the light, and made vigorous efforts to acquire as much as he could.  But the more he acquired, the more the absence of light was felt.

He tried to learn about the light.  He tried to impress upon his mind the words and emotions associated with those belonging in a way which he could not understand. Yet nothing sunk in.

He tried to bottle it, parcel and package it, grab hold of it, furiously embrace it, consume it, rationalize with it, and even implore with it.

But the light would not stay. The radiance vacated. The sun set.

Paris then knew, his most beautiful art would be from scraps of shadow.

J