The night my heart died, I disavowed all colors save blue and grey, two armies of brothers clashing in my soul in a distant past, captured by an ancient daggeurotype and frozen in time.

Our love was yellow with the sun on his hair, the way nature seemed to embrace him as her preferred child and wrap her warm rays around him more tightly than all others. She and I always regarded each other with a vacant distance, for I only saw nature as reflected in those eyes -- stormy grey and blue.

Our jealousy for each other -- unmatched, appreciated, and reciprocrated on each side, was the deepest of emerald greens, our love a red of such intensity that would make Mark Rothko despair of creating a canvas that portrayed such deep-seated feeling. The wash of colors left me blinded, swooning, dizzy with exhilaration.

And then he left.

And all of the sudden the yellows turned sour, the greens sickly, and then reds speaking only of bloody rage and heartless anger. I would have sworn off all color, but he had left me devoid of purity, and white only reflected my drawn face back at me, mocking the flawed void of my eyes. And I could not force myself to give up blue, though now it only taught me of sorrow and hopelessness, and the subdued gray of a tired winter sky.

They were all that was left to me. For six months, I saw life through a series of filters, bringing me only the dull and the dreary -- the union blue and confederate gray, a wash of noncontrasting colors in which you might kill allies accidentally.

It was then that I saw him. Him. Beautiful in that careless way that always made me want to weep with awe, the sunbeams embracing him as warmly as ever. And then I saw her. Walking through the park, arm in arm, the way we once did. I thought it was so old-fashioned and romantic, so wonderfully Victorian, when I was still under his spell. I saw those delicious stormy eyes flicker over to me, up and down in that possessive way I once reveled in, and then it was clear. As his eyes turned to another woman and performed the exact same motions.

The spell was broken, and I was free of him and the blues and grays that held me captive. I could not repossess the myriad of colors, those still belonged to him, but I was now white -- a deathless, pure shade that no longer mocked me.

I was an empty plate, waiting for another to fill me.

(nodeshell rescue, for those of you (like myself) who have not attained level three)
Well of course I could tell you about the dark colors and monochrome life. It was a stifling office job, tiny cubicle, nine to five and sore butt from sitting. Stagnant mindpool and climbing the walls out of boredom. I could tell you this but it would be a lie.

And then I'd tell you about loosening up, getting a new job, about being entertained and stimulated and having more leisure time. I could tell you this but it would be an even bigger lie.

As though my wardrobe were a conscious decision. (No). As though blue and grey are dying colors. (No). It's lots simpler than you might think. Can you say Winter with me? Can you say Lazy or Fashion Rut or Uncomplicated or better yet, Safe Routine? Any of those would be more accurate.

Now let me show you a negative. White where the darks should be and dark where the light is. Yes? Does this make sense? (even if it doesn't, it is my truth.)

Listen, I am content with my blacks and no colors. It is easy to deal with me when I am settled like that, when it is all specified and filled in and set. What would I do with a white plate? What would I do with a new canvas? My stars would suddenly say Warning: Splinters off into a thousand directions. My mind suddenly says What will I do with any of this life. White is a dangerous color.

(Becca used to have a hot pink umbrelly. To put some difference into the greyness, she said. I think more to give her a starting point for crazy. She always confused her greys with white.)

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