Her Colour White

She was always taught to emulate the colour white. Uninspiring, plain, pure. She blended well with other people and situations, just like white blends beautifully with any colour that comes its way. White softens bold colours turning black into grey and fuschia to baby pink. She seemed to have that kind of effect on people. They would let down their guard, making her privy to their more gentle side. In a world that was obsessed with being forthright and visible, meeting her was refreshing. 

She often thought about what it would be like to be a fierce red, playful yellow or melancholic blue. Why did she have to always be the agreeable white? How liberating it would be to express her feelings without toning them down. To explode into a burst of colour? 

It’s not as if she hadn’t tried. But every time she became even a shade bolder her spirit was smudged by the artists of her life. Artists who controlled her manifestation, her expression and even her freedom to explore, to experience joy. 

She is reminded of him now. Her childhood friend. He who brought out in her the playful yellow. Their friendship as tubby toddlers to lanky teenagers was always reaffirming to her much like the sunniest of spring days. Their friendship in adolescence however started to be seen in an unfavourable light by the self proclaimed artists of her life. They began telling her to laugh less, to dress demurely and to not look him in the eye. She resisted at first, did not pay them any heed. But then her playful yellow was tainted by false rumours and unkind words. She was forced to embrace the easily accepted qualities of white. So now she’s the all encompassing, ever forgiving, peaceful white. On the surface. For her colourful soul remains shrouded. She dreams of the day when she will regain control of the canvas of her life and splash it with every colour of the pallet. Until then she will seek solace in white.