A cool bit of writing I found.
"What color is love?
Surely love is red. Red is the color of passion, of desire. It is emotionally intense. It awakens your senses and drags you towards the destination of your heart.
But there was more to love than lust. Love couldn't be red because love was much, much more than physical want. The man put down the brush he had dipped in red.
Maybe love is yellow, the man pondered, reaching for a clean brush. Yellow represents joy. It has a warming effect. It arouses cheerfulness. It, like love, lifts you from darker times and floats you towards your desires.
The brush was a centimeter from the yellow paint when the man changed his mind. Bright, light yellow was cheerful and uplifting, but once you added a shade to it the meaning changed. It became to color of sickness and jealousy.
Observing his messy tray of colors, the man came to a decision he felt was final. Love is blue. Blue is calming. It reassures you, just as a strong love does. Blue is the color of loyalty and faith, which is the true meaning of love.
Dipping his brush into the blue paint, the man made one stroke across the page before he changed his mind. He tore the paper from the easel, crumpled it, and tossed it aside. Love was not blue. Blue was tranquil and calming, yes, but love was hardly confined into those limits. Love meant a strong faith, but it meant more than trust to the man.
"Perhaps orange is the true color of love," the man mused aloud. "Orange combines the passion of red and the lightness of yellow. It is the color of enthusiasm and happiness and attraction. But…" The man stopped abruptly, staring at the orange hairs of his brush. "Orange is painful to watch for too long. My love for my wife never grows old."
He rinsed his brush, growing more exasperated by the second. He looked over his tray of colors again. He was struck by the sudden urge to swat it away, spilling the colors that caused him this anguish.
"Purple," he said decidedly. Purple combines the passion of red and the tranquility of blue. It represents both the lustful and the trusting sides of loves. But purple is also associated with royalty and independence. She would hate that.
The man stopped his train of thought, too weak to think about it. "No purple."
I can't use green. It is the symbol of growth and fertility. She'll take it the wrong way. Besides, it corresponds to wealth, which brings up hard images just as purple does.
"What color is love?" he repeated, perplexed. He ran his fingers through his hair again.
It hit him as he lifted his hand from his head, as if pulling the knowledge out. Love could not be put into a color. Love could not be copied. Love was not an object; it was an image. Love was something one imagined. Love was when two people imagined the same thing. Love could not be manufactured. It couldn't be bought. It couldn't be forced. One could not look at something and fall madly in love. Love was a process. Love was a game."
//thought you might enjoy it, too. It's by whisperasweknowit
Surely love is red. Red is the color of passion, of desire. It is emotionally intense. It awakens your senses and drags you towards the destination of your heart.
But there was more to love than lust. Love couldn't be red because love was much, much more than physical want. The man put down the brush he had dipped in red.
Maybe love is yellow, the man pondered, reaching for a clean brush. Yellow represents joy. It has a warming effect. It arouses cheerfulness. It, like love, lifts you from darker times and floats you towards your desires.
The brush was a centimeter from the yellow paint when the man changed his mind. Bright, light yellow was cheerful and uplifting, but once you added a shade to it the meaning changed. It became to color of sickness and jealousy.
Observing his messy tray of colors, the man came to a decision he felt was final. Love is blue. Blue is calming. It reassures you, just as a strong love does. Blue is the color of loyalty and faith, which is the true meaning of love.
Dipping his brush into the blue paint, the man made one stroke across the page before he changed his mind. He tore the paper from the easel, crumpled it, and tossed it aside. Love was not blue. Blue was tranquil and calming, yes, but love was hardly confined into those limits. Love meant a strong faith, but it meant more than trust to the man.
"Perhaps orange is the true color of love," the man mused aloud. "Orange combines the passion of red and the lightness of yellow. It is the color of enthusiasm and happiness and attraction. But…" The man stopped abruptly, staring at the orange hairs of his brush. "Orange is painful to watch for too long. My love for my wife never grows old."
He rinsed his brush, growing more exasperated by the second. He looked over his tray of colors again. He was struck by the sudden urge to swat it away, spilling the colors that caused him this anguish.
"Purple," he said decidedly. Purple combines the passion of red and the tranquility of blue. It represents both the lustful and the trusting sides of loves. But purple is also associated with royalty and independence. She would hate that.
The man stopped his train of thought, too weak to think about it. "No purple."
I can't use green. It is the symbol of growth and fertility. She'll take it the wrong way. Besides, it corresponds to wealth, which brings up hard images just as purple does.
"What color is love?" he repeated, perplexed. He ran his fingers through his hair again.
It hit him as he lifted his hand from his head, as if pulling the knowledge out. Love could not be put into a color. Love could not be copied. Love was not an object; it was an image. Love was something one imagined. Love was when two people imagined the same thing. Love could not be manufactured. It couldn't be bought. It couldn't be forced. One could not look at something and fall madly in love. Love was a process. Love was a game."
//thought you might enjoy it, too. It's by whisperasweknowit