There’s anger in red, at least, that’s what most will say.
Red is anger, fury, fire and brimstone.
It’s lust and violence.
Red is raw and reaping energy, the solid and the faint, the systematic and the chaotic.
But red, this red —
this complete and utter embodiment into red,
drowning, choking, becoming.
This red is not angry.
Acceptance of our mortality, acceptance of the inevitability of drowning.
It’s warm but not blazing, unhinged but not fury.
This red is becoming. It’s hard and soft and loud and quiet —
but not angry.
I could poke my metaphor stick at red for hours.
I could un-turn it and repaint it and evolve it into some great symbol of
the telling faults of humanity’s ignorance to becoming.
But it’s red. And it’s not angry. And that’s
really all I have to say.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe