synthesia
Katya is so red.
Just like her lipstick, and you could probably stretch to make a comparison to cherries - maybe like, just before they’re actually ripe, and it’s stupid, but the low strumming of a guitar seems to almost come with all of the red.
It’s not even like a sunset - the red there is too orange, and not really stark enough. It’s not the red glow from a cigarette, contrasting a dark night. It’s not bright enough.
It’s bright like a child’s drawing of a heart, all crayon and markers. Or, fake blood that nobody bothered to make realistic. It’s a low budget movie, nobody cares how real the blood looks anyways.
Too bright, or not bright enough?
Red like flags. And wrapping paper at christmas. And certain book covers. It’s a common red, but there seems to be no perfect way of describing it.
A communist red, with sequins, and an entire outfit paired with a smile.
Red.
Is it too red? Impossible.
It’s weird how Trixie is pink, but still not, like, pink.
It’s no color that’d fit a baby, no soft pillows or clothes. Not a bright triangle, pinned to a chest. Not as harsh as the lines on her face, not like the colors drawn on her lips, her bright outfits, everything is just too fucking bright.
It’s supposed to be all soft.
Sunsets, everybody seems to be a sunset.
Just those moments before the sun starts to set, when the sky is lit up by a pink glow, before (or maybe after) it turns purple. And then everything else follows - the oranges, blah blah blah - shades that doesn’t matter in this context. They’ll return later.
It’s pinkpinkpinkpink.
Speaking of the perpetual sunsets.
Raja.
Orange, those last flashes of the sun just before it disappears. Or, maybe it’s a sunrise?
Yeah. It’s a sunrise. But like, after a long night. You’ve been up for hours, had the roughest night you think anybody has ever had. It seems as if the sun is never going to rise, and the stars hasn’t even appeared over the course of the night. The moon who used to watch you every night has left you, too. There’s nothing but yourself, maybe a bottle, or maybe something else. And believe me, you’re not carrying that bottle around to stay hydrated.
You’re on the beach, having given up on finding your way home. Why is there a beach there? You don’t live near one. Have you really walked that far?
Whatever. The ocean waves is hitting your feet - why aren’t you wearing shoes? That’s fucked up.
The water definitely shouldn’t be warm. Warmth feels like hope, and that’s something else that you’ve lost over this night.
Then, you see the light.
It’s rising right in front of you - directly in front of you, even. It’s staring you down, like it’s trying to prove a point, challenging you. And then the entire sky is orange, sun not really giving a shit about the few clouds that are in the way. They either have to move, or let themselves be painted like that.
Everything is now warm, and orange, and the water’s temperature makes sense now. You close your eyes, letting yourself revel in the warmth that’s all around you, and then you open your eyes again, because you don’t want to miss this.
It’s art in the oddest form you’ve ever seen. Or maybe it’s not, and it’s just nature, or maybe sometimes they’re the same thing.
The sun has risen, and the only thing left is the blue ocean, blue sky.
Blue.
itsblueitsblueitsblue
The orange is gone. And that makes you sad.
Now it’s all blue, bright and clear and the water just almost matches the sky, the darker shades that lies beneath it hides the lives that live there.
The sky isnt painted orange anymore, and that makes you sad.
Raja and the Orange is gone. Manila and the Blue has just arrived.
It’s weird how many not-good things that you associate with blue.
Sad winter skies, plastic bas, some of the most boring books you’ve ever read. That shirt you bought once, and never ended up wearing. A pillow that you have no idea why you’ve kept for as long as you have.
But there’s a sky, and that’s pretty neat.
And, there’s veins in your body, and surely those keep you alive in some type of way, right?
Your favorite playlist has three blue albums on the Spotify cover. Something is definitely there, deep underneath all of the blue.
Under the ocean. Under the waves, and under the animals that hide. Maybe shipwrecks, and the other million things that icebergs destroys.
Your favorite painting is also blue.
Venus is rising from the ocean, standing on a seashell. She is the ocean, too.
Blue is all around her - all around you.
It’s alive.
It baffles you how boring pearl actually is - the color, the object; not the queen, not the person.
There is nothing to associate with. Seashells, jewelry.
You’ve decided that natural pearls are the coolest pearls. They’re all uneven, and to be honest they’re a lot uglier that the cultured ones. The ones produced by oysters. Killing oysters for beauty feels kinda fucked up, but alas, humanity isn’t humane.
Besides, you don’t see Pearl - the queen, the person this time - as pearl - back to the color again.
She isn’t even a color to you, which could be sad.
She’s just a thing.
You have yet to figure out the color of said thing. Maybe it doesn’t have one, which feels sorta harsh.
It’s like, maybe feathers? Ostrich feathers?
Every movement of them, held on a fan or wrapped like a not-very-functional scarf, wrapped around somebody’s neck. Maybe even in the way that pearl necklaces clings, drapes down deep low across bodies. Probably not even natural pearls.
There is nothing occurring spontaneously here, every single move is deliberate; decided and planned for hours before they happen.
Violet is like, green. Not purple - never purple.
Which, green out of context is boring as fuck. Grass, endless images of nature floating by, maybe even flashes of the color across a northern sky.
But it’s more like greengreengreen flashes, and feathers - see? You knew they belonged together.
Green and maybe even silver wrapped tight against a body, lacing a waist to be impossibly small. It’s an all green runway look, but with like, 30 filters thrown on top of it to make it more muted. Nobody likes a yellow-green.
It’s even green lights, contrasting the red that comes from who-even-knows.
Lights, and feathers, and maybe even a sliver of a nature that shouldn’t be there. Fabric, that has no space at all to cling to anybody’s body, doesn’t have time to linger on anything but the details.
You have no idea where the flashes of silver comes from, but it’s there, and that’s really all that matters in the end.