I titled this with only the thought of a premise, curled up and small, like the damaged bastard fetus in a drug addicts womb.
And there it was, my color. Something dark and unnamed. Something vivid and sometimes shocking. My color soothes and abrades depending on the bend of light. I am the product of opal and onyx.
Our colors can be touched. Today I am a tired polyester. Vintage and consigned many times over the years. I am threadbare where I’ve been well worn and repaired one too many times.
I imagine that if you take a color and fold it on itself, it might make a sound. Today my hue sounds like cellos from a distance, an ebb and flow of three timeless notes conversing with each other about quantum physics. There chances of reaching crescendo are a mystery, much like their subject matter. This song is without colloquialisms and platitudes. Slow, soft, and rich.
In my fantasy, my world is an origami crane of color and fabric and song. It’s thrown into space where we’ll live there staring at the stars and loving our dimensions.
