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It’s Not Orange

“What’s your favorite color?”

I can tell you mine.

I can tell you it isn’t the typical red, green, blue, yellow, purple, pink, black, or orange.

I can tell you it is definitely¬†different. It isn’t something you describe in one word but rather many.

I can tell you I don’t have just one and that it changes depending on my mood and the kind of day I’m having.

I can tell you that if I had to answer with a simple word, a basic color, I would say purple. For material possessions, gifts, trinkets, paint… Purple.

I can tell you that for all else my favorite color(s) goes deeper than that of when someone is wanting to know because, for example, it’s my birthday and they are trying to pick out the perfect card.

I can tell you my favorite color is the outpouring of thick, warm, amber light that floods the windshield and every exposed surface around me when the setting sun stops and dangles just above the horizon as I drive home from a long day of work.

I can tell you my favorite color is the rush of summery-sweet, strawberry blood running down your chin that gushes out as you sink your teeth into the juicy flesh of the field-fresh fruit.

I can tell you my favorite color is found when you’re submerged under the cool, emerald Carribean as speckles of a¬†bright sunshine peek through the water’s surface.

I can tell you my favorite color is the dazzling variety of amethyst stone so scrumptious to the eyes it would be devoured by mouth if declared edible.

I can tell you of many colors you never knew existed.

I can tell you of a world so amazing, so taken for granted, so marvelous, so vast. A world full of hues and luminosity and blush deserving of lengthy description instead of a single, lazily worded name.


I can tell you it is the world we live in.

Poor Judgement

He sulked around the corner. Covering him was a red button-up ironically three-fourths of the way unbuttoned leaving a v-shaped window showing everything from the middle of his bloated belly up to the neck. Over the red shirt was a questionable and faded grey jacket that had undoubtedly seen better days.

What else so clothed this fumbling mystery? Knee-length denim shorts that frayed at the ends. Tattered flipflops. Tanned, rugged skin and an unkempt beard were his accessories.

An abundance of space in the hallway before him yet the subject hugged the wall as he walked, struggling to pull a cigarette from the crumpled pack in his hand. It was obvious he’d allowed himself a few pleasurable drinks before stumbling upon the downtown library to attend to whatever business he had at the time. I wonder if he was content with the progress of his responsibilities in the computer room before succumbing to the craving of ¬†the carcinogenic compounds he now held between his lips.

We made eye contact for only a moment but it was long enough to see the red in his eyes as a result of long days and even longer nights, the consumption of alcohol and nicotine, and the life of emptiness that he portrayed.

I felt sorry for him.


Whoever he was.

Blog #4,468

Yes. 4,468. At least, I’m assuming that is the number of times I have attempted to keep a blog running.

Upon trying to uproot my first blog and move it from the Google suburbs to the city of WordPress, I was suddenly struck with the idea of having not one but two different blogs. I would keep the first one where it is and make a completely different writing space altogether. Kind of like having a regular house in one place and a vacation house somewhere else. One is for more serious and long-term use whereas the other is for a change of scenery and a lighter load on my shoulders.

Well… that didn’t work as I became more involved with this one and mercilessly abandoned the other. Whoops. ūüė¶

So this blog is my last and final blog (fingers crossed) fueled by all of the observations of every place I’ve ever been, of the complete strangers I see every day, novel-fitting character sketches I come up with in my head that I keep to myself, color and light that I think only my eyes can see in that moment, creative storylines deep enough to grace a few pages of a book but not enough to make a book as a whole, the constant analyzing and perceiving and endless running that my mind does… All of it. Everything I have kept to myself for so long. The entire archive of art that is my brain.

And you have a front row seat.