I love hearing about colors. Granted, I’ll never actually see them. I can’t even begin to imagine what they are. But there is nothing I love more than listening to ponies talk about color. It’s alien to them. How could something so simple be so difficult to explain? Of course they do try, mostly for my sake. I get a lot of sympathy, most of which I don’t need, because as much as they might think it; I don’t envy them for their sight. You can’t miss something you’ve never had. And so, as I sit here and do my best to write, I shall try and explain these colors to you.
Red. Red is by far my favorite. The emotion in the voices of those who describe it is undeniable, and it makes me smile just to imagine it. Red is the color of love, and anger and raw, incredible, passion. It burns with the hot touch of a kiss and the fiery assault of coarse words. When you see her for the first time, it is the color of her dress. When she whispers to you, it is the color of her lips. When she touches your skin, it is the color that blossoms under her trailing hoof. When you see her with another it is the color of your breath. When you shout it is the color of your words. When she hears you, it is the color of her pulse. When you look into her eyes, it is the fading, dying color of your sinking heart. It is not the color you see when she leaves.
Blue. Blue is not a color I’d imagine ponies enjoy, and yet it is a common favorite. It is the color of your tears, and it is the color of the crushing pressure of loneliness. It is the color of the cold touch of despair upon your heart, and it is the color of depression’s blistering clutch. Blue is the sadness that seeps into your body in the early hours of the morning, when you lie half-awake in the misty tendrils of sleep. Blue is everywhere, and so many overlook its daunting presence. Tell me, where does blue naturally form? In the sky, in the reflections, in the bright hues of certain flowers… And yet it is so rare. All too often, ponies create blue and they do not realize how much damage they do in the process.
Green. It is an odd color and I have always wondered about it. Green disgusts some and sparks the flame of imagination in others. Rustles of a tree or the grass are green, and yet so is the smell of decay. Green is the color of nature, and it is beautiful. It is mistreated, but it is wondrous and, could I see it, I would feel safe in its embrace. Unlike the harsh, brash emotions of red, and the suffocating night of blue, green is comforting. Green is gentle. Green is easy.
Yellow. The sound of a flute, stones heated in the sun, the summer breeze. The touch of a flower, the sun upon your face, and, quite simply, happiness. I do not understand why many ponies do not like the color yellow. Perhaps, in a world of predominant red and blue, yellow shines too brightly. It radiates hope and the promise of new beginnings, and so many ponies can no longer trust it.
Black. The color of the night and the absence of light are how it has always been described to me. According to most, pure black is not really a color, as such. It is an absence of light. And yet it is so frequent. It appears everywhere, and as much as ponies tell me otherwise, I refuse to believe that blue is the true color of the night sky. It is far too sad for that. The stars above are swathed in a sea of black nothingness, hot and cold simultaneously, and it all promises so much. Black is the color of mystery and the color of possibilities. When you talk to new ponies it is the color of the potentials. So much is yet to be learnt about them, about yourself, and yet, like the night sky, the unknown can hold so much.
White. Nopony will fully describe this as a color to me. Those I know least well insist it isn’t a color, and that it is simply nothing. I find it incredibly frustrating when they tell me that white is merely the color of nothingness, because what is that? If I cannot see, we must conclude that I see nothing, and so must also conclude that all I can see is white. I do not believe that to be so. White, the impossible color, is loneliness and hope at the same time. It is the color of your surrender and the color of the light at the end of the tunnel. White closes the circle, but of course, with the end comes a new beginning. I do not wander about my life that constant cycle, and I have no desire to. White is not nothing. White is every bit as important as the other colors, and I refuse to accept its dismissal.
Color is something that can be described, but not in a flurried, hurried explanation given in a couple of seconds. It takes thought, and it takes listening. You have to hang on to the passion and the feeling and the emotions in the voices of those who describe color to you. It doesn’t just tell you about the world. It tells you about how they see the world. It’s surprising how much you can learn about ponies when you just listen. Once you hear somepony you once thought callous talk about the heat and passion of red, it tells a completely different story about them, and in turn, their past. Once you hear someone, who outwardly appears bright and happy, talk about blue, they will never again be the same to you.
After years of listening, I have reached the conclusion that everypony’s life is a painting. Some are the deep, sorrowful, blue of years gone by, some are the flaming, passionate, red of the present, and some are the bright yellow of tomorrow; but no matter what color, everypony’s painting is beautiful. The immediate colors that make up our lives and the new, indescribable colors created when they mix. The huge, infinite range of emotions that can never be named. That’s all we are really. Emotions, memories, stories, and colors.
Even though I’ll never really get to see them… I don’t think the world could be any clearer.
