We all have colors in our life. Some bright, some dark, some gentle, some striking, some subtle, some bold, and many hovering on the border between two colors, unwilling to be called one or another until the light strikes it at just the right time in just the right place.
Your colors? What are they?
One thing’s for sure. They will shift as these coming days pass. The color you loved best won’t suit you quite the same way anymore. The color that never really matched your eyes will suddenly meld perfectly into the hue of your irises, which have gotten darker, or lighter, as the earth spins around the sun.
What matters isn’t the color itself, but rather what you do with it. Splash it on a wall, smear it across a canvas, pencil it across a poster laid before the public on a promenade, saturate it with the swipe of a bar on a digital screen … the colors are there for you, it’s your palette.
I found some colors a few days ago, riding home from somewhere, where I’d been doing something. They were standing in the sky, waiting to be poured into my viewfinder, so I tilted the edges of the air and let them flow in. Hundreds of people had gathered on the edge of continent at that very moment to fill their own little buckets with the pastels being flooded across the sky.
When I got home I fiddled with them some and made them mine. A hundred other people, maybe thousands, had these same colors, but when I got done, mine were the prettiest of all, not because of their inherent beauty, but because I’d wet my finger with the paint and left a swirled thumbprint that was mine alone.
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