When I started off as a child, my life was white. White as canvas to be filled with extravagant metaphors. White as snow; ready to fall with grace and rise steadily.

During adolescence, it was all yellow. To be yellow is termed as a significance of confidence. Vincent van Gogh referred to the colour as happiness. And so did I, hopping past life with a halo round my head.

 As I grew into a young lady, it began turning red. Red as the depiction of love and anger, blended to meet proximity. Red that extended from the lightest pink for innocence to the darkest maroon for the tenebrous spiral staircase of shady phases.

But it wasn’t always a discrete precise hue. In times of confusion, I’d see pigments merging like a chemical experiment. The homogenous blend would sometimes leave me in awe of the huge variety of possibilities.

While blue reminded me of the sorrowful and forlorn times, green was always there to cheer me up with its brightness. 

After shading through a range of tints and stains, I ended in grey. Grey as the dead warriors and the long awaiting of the gone. Grey as the cornea and retina of the fulfilled years.

 But I swear it was never black.

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