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Like most rose petals which once blushed red and then gradually withered into the brownish pale dirt that was their fate, this one did too. It isn`t in the fate of all to be loved and preserved in between the pages of a treasured book of memories; it wasn`t in hers too. She knew it all this time you could argue but who could suppress that tiny part of her heart which still beat golden and believed in miracles? The greyest of winds couldn`t. It did eventually stop beating that way- but it was not the grey wind that blew hope off. It was a fond red murderous hand which she thought to be love all along. So strange is the color red.
But how would she have known? She had only yearned for it all her life- never to have quite seen it except in the reflection of herself. She was red- the kind of deep blood red which you can find throbbing through your heart. But she was red only for him- to the rest of the world she was pale white- zestless and morbid. What had made her morbid you could wonder? It was probably the incoming of her fate all along. But if she knew her fate all along why did she turn red for him? I wonder too. But again, red is a strange color.
She knew the story. She did. But when you look at something which has the power to turn your life into the one you had yearned for all along, rationality takes a backseat, doesn`t it? Nevertheless it does not change the course of the story. But even in the smallest frame of time in which she could experience the color red- she quite understood it. She understood it to be lethal- it was not blush pink which could come and go away like that- it was red, that stained forever. She understood why it was also the color of danger, and blood and anger. It was the extreme of what you could feel, it wasn`t a tingle in the chest, it was a full fledged fire. There was this certain acuteness which could make her pearl white eyes red as if bleeding in pain- or burning in rage. It was a strange color. But she knew it wasn`t for the faint.
To feel it you must have it in you to endure it, the vigorousness that it brings along when it enters you and the mud brown bareness that it leaves you with as it withers away. Which it does without fail, it isn`t like most colors which seem to stay. Its more like a fire lighted on counted woods, it has to die. Sometimes its enough to warm you all your life- sometimes slowly it makes you burn away with itself.
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