Disposition of a Hue

Color evokes a lot of emotion. It tells a lot about a person. The very essences of it can be conjured in our mind without specifically naming the hue. Moods themselves have pigment—that’s why our minds light up with a colorful reel when we hear a story. Seeing color for all its value (and being able to play with its synonymous siblings) allows us the opportunity to describe a feeling we might not’ve otherwise been able to articulate. 

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In my writing exercises this morning, I challenged myself to write about a color without mentioning the color’s actual name. To keep myself corralled in only one thought process, I created a female narrator who is keenly observing a woman with whom she in hopelessly in love. Infatuation really heightens awareness—so the descriptions are romantic, dark, and sensual.

How would you describe these colors? 

The Color Brown.

Her hair was like oak—textured and shadowed beneath the canopy of her own glorious aura. Smooth as coffee and the steam billowing from it, each strand fell in perfect rhythm with the slow, rainy day—wisps dancing about, searching for the sun.

The Color Blue.

Her eyes were in a chasm—a crystal chamber in which I found myself lost. Letting my own eyes soften, I sank deep into that cosmic gaze. I couldn’t tell if I was floating immersed beneath the wave of her pupils or floating amongst the clouds—hanging somewhere between sky and atmosphere. I was enveloped in her calm.

The Color Red.

Her lips were friendly. The melting warmth of them seemed inviting, but I was also cautious. Every line, every curve was perfection. Nothing bled. Except my heart for her. My lips were cautious, not luring. Perhaps if I was able to meet hers, mine would know this tenderness of love.

The Color Green.

Fingernails stained by the earth, she knelt in prayerful reverence. Tending to the abundance of life in her garden like I tend to the poetic voices in my mind. I let my characters grow. She grows her seeds—tiny pods of vibrance, of what life could be if we only nurtured it like she does. Like dew on a blade magnifies the veins, so you expand me and realize the composition of my soul.

The Color Gray. 

The hollow of her weary eyes, the wisp of cigarette smoke, and the dimly lit bar—a foggy illusion of happiness. She crept around the shadows, holding tight to secrets, searching for light to mix with her darkness. Am I allowed to feel this way? she wonders silently. My soul in endless debate.

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