There are blue ink stains all over my palms. Somehow I can never keep my fingers, nails, skin clean. I look at the grooves in my hands, colored in shades of cyan and periwinkle, and feel giddy in a strangely primal, capricious manner. The colorimetrically defined complementary color of blue is yellow.
I have a particular fondness for yellow. Maybe it has something to do with sulphur, or manipura, the third primary chakra. I have become accustomed to wrapping an arm across my navel, where this solar plexus chakra is located, in periods of wretchedness. Why I do this is like the reason behind my vehement, gelatinous nature and my dark dark dark eyes – unknown.
I have yet to meet a person whose favorite color is yellow. Is it yours? By all means, tell me.
Maybe people are defined by the colors they prefer (not the ones they write down on personality tests – those are all so repetitive, but the ones that make them smile, that spark warmth in the pits of their bellies). What would a purple boy be like? Stubborn, traditional, tumultuous, standing up to dance, yelling across a room? And a yellow one? Vivacious, ebullient, reveling in adoration, but falling asleep thinking of insecurities?
I feel like turning on the radio, snapping my fingers to the 80’s progressive rock that’s on this time of day (Friday it was Carry On Wayward Son, and I blasted the sound through my bedroom window).
I have decided on a new plot for the book I will not write. The main character’s name is Sebastian. At night, he is roused by rocks thrown at his window, appeals to play his violin at midnight funerals. He picks up his instrument and crawls down the three-hundred-year-old five-leaved ivy cemented to his house (which he has kept, despite his neighbor’s complaints. He feels a certain affinity with the plant). The first few times he was asked to do this he took the time to put on his one suit before, but now he arrives in orange-striped pajamas. Why would the dead care what he was wearing, anyway?
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