Dear Vincent Vision,
Your prism, so righteous in its promise of enlightenment, has led you astray. Where marvelous spectra should dance, you have found but a singular tone – the stark crimson of blood.
Let me remind you of the true nature of light, Vision, for I too have a lens to share. A portal into the sublime and terrifying machinations of life. It is not a prism that serves to split, to dissect, but a kaleidoscope that accepts, integrates, and embraces.
Life is the ultimate canvas, and it refuses to be pinned by a single hue. It swirls with an array of colors, each a note in its macabre symphony. Wild, untamed, and perhaps unfathomable by your monochromatic perception.
But to truly understand it, one must throw themselves at the mercy of its discord. One must clutch that cacophony, the pain, and cradle it close to the chest.
Pain is not a shade to fear but to celebrate. It weaves through the tapestry of our being, a vibrant thread in the grand design of existence. It carves into our essence, hollowing out spaces only to fill them again with a fortitude only hardship can bestow.
Your prism distorts this pantheon of human emotion, casting everything into a bloody hue.
You have become entranced by the visceral, the easily translated: Bloody crimson red.
But my kaleidoscope dares to scatter the light into its myriad colors, each an echo of the experiences that make us human.
Where your prism subtracts, simplifies, my kaleidoscope adds, complicates, and brings one closer to the true mosaic of being.
As a Preacher of Pain, god of the Slums, I walk not in the comfort of the single-hued road.
I step on shards of devastation, despair, and loss. But each shard refracts the world anew, proving a thousand facets to each moment. The pain, the pleasure, the unspoken truths that lie between – to gaze into my kaleidoscope is to confront them all.
You see, life is not about the singularity of a prism, but the multiplicity of a kaleidoscope. Pain is not a singular experience but a kaleidoscope of lessons, each a fractal of understanding.
Take one last look into your crimson prism, Vision. Can you not see how it pales in the face of life’s grand tapestry?
This limiting lens is not the answer.
The prism separates, confines, limits—the kaleidoscope, however, emerges triumphant. It celebrates the endless dance of existence, the infinite pattern of colors that make us who we are.
I invite you, old friend, to relinquish your new infatuation with blood’s romantic hue.
Let it be but a color amongst many.
Embrace the pain, for in the crucible of suffering, we find our true selves. Only then will you see the world through my kaleidoscope.
It is not a single color that defines us, but the combined brilliance of a thousand hues.
Your prism has shown you nothing but a limited view, a river of blood.
But my kaleidoscope—it holds the whole damned ocean.
Your friend enemy,
GRIMSKULL