Chiaroscuro By Alyssa Carlier White is the cleanest color of them all. It is the color of milk, the color of new-fallen snow. It is a warm blanket on a winter night, your mother's first and last kiss. White is purity so unsullied it begs to be tarnished. Red is the fiercest color of them all. It is the color of fire, the color of autumn leaves. It is a blooming rose, waiting to seduce its crimson partner by extending its thorn. Red is passion so intense it sets fire to itself. Brown is the warmest color of them all. It is the color of wood, the color of your morning coffee. It is your grandmother's hand-knitted sweater, trampled by the very people it nourishes. Brown is the comfort we always seek and never treasure. Grey is the coolest color of them all. It is the color of rain clouds, the color of dirty ice. It is the receding hair of an old man, cloth pulled over coffin despite a widow's sobs. Grey is the truth that no one wants and no one can avoid. Black is the darkest color of them all. It is the color of crow feathers, a starless night. It is darkness that engulfs half the world, abyss when your eyes close. Black is the sum of all colors. Black is the end.
Published on Nov 30, 2014
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