I've taken so long to do this post not because of the usual suspects: deadlines, strange and sudden exhaustion, blogger did summat weird, I had a nervous breakdown. I've taken so long because I'm really not sure what to say, about colours.
I mean, I could talk about my favourite colour. Which is blue. But if I do talk about it I'll probably expose that as a lie. In my younger days my favourite colour was actually black, but then I grew up and found my mild goth stage a little embarrassing, and so I've pretended ever afterwards that it isn't black at all. It's the blue of the arctic, the blue of cold. It's blue, okay?
Even though it isn't, really.
It's definitely black.
It's the black of my one true love's hair, like a raven's wing, like a glossy drop of ink. It's the black of the night sky when there are no stars, or the black of the night sky when there are stars and it still seems darker than death.
It's that black of endlessness, like when you look up at the universe and realise it goes on and on forever in a way you could just fall into, if the world turned upside down abruptly and everyone fell right off it. Can you imagine that?
Can you imagine being swallowed by black?
I bet you can't imagine being swallowed by yellow. Yellow is sweet; yellow is cheery. Yellow doesn't look like a velvet dress billowing across the night sky, just waiting for you to get lost in its folds. Yellow doesn't spread across a white pillow, thick and glossy, like the words I'm just longing to write on a page as pale as his skin.
You couldn't tell the tale of Snow White, with a colour like yellow. You can only tell it with black: her ebony hair, against the backdrop of crimson and white. His ebony hair, against a backdrop of my hands, plunged to the wrist in darkness.
And that is why I like black.