Colour

Colour was the food she sought. In all her journeys, in all her delicate steps and in all her brash boundings, she only wanted that one course, so delectable, so intriguing was it. The reds of remorse mingled with the reds of passion and those of anger, a sweet cadence that made her feel as if the blood within her sang its melody. The greens of illness dripped uneasily onto the green of naivety, spoiling it as surely as the green of money spoils the green of Mother Earth. Blue were her tears as in blue twilight she witnessed the soft croon of a blues bard, cranking from her lungs those feelings seasoned bittersweet. Black were her thoughts as, stepping through the deep unknown of her own mind, she never thought she’d find a soul outside the black again. White were her most tenuous fleeting thoughts, innocence upon the white snow and sky, fleeing outward like a band of fledglings or the words typed upon the white of this page. But still her journey continued. She scoffed at the unwholesome majesty of violet, she reeled at the orange of perverseness and warning. And still onward she flew. She mixed her colours, she found grey. She found many years of doldrums, shifting through warm greys, and cold ones, ones with some life and ones which could only ever stay dead. And she despaired for there was nothing to sate her and she grew hungry. Wasting away, she saw brown grow around her, saw its maw wide and ready to swallow her and make her the earth. This was a carnivorous colour, one which she could not pursue but which pursued her. And the ground pulled her further in and smothered her breath. All she knew in those last moments before death was brown. Not the bright light of love or accomplishment. She had grown bored of that long ago. Not the utter black shadow of fear… that was also behind her. But this brown. This colour of worms and ordure and soot. This was her defeat. She closed her eyes and died. And somewhere inside her, a consciousness was let loose from this world of things with names, of light with hues, of increments and of textures. It became all things and no things as it became incorporeal. And in this transition perhaps her new colour, the one which, all along, was inside her, was born.