Red is the color that cascades through us. Even the purest and wisest of us are soaked in a thick, silky blush
In the wrists of those pale enough, patterns are spun. Veins of Indigo hang under the palm like flatly ironed sashes. It is for that reason the denial is supported. That hue of sapphire lures even the cleverest of us into believing that blueberry lie, that we are seeping the luxurious concord blood of the gods.
The hue higher than nature.
The scaled wings of the butterfly are crafted finely, yet, are a deceitful suitor. The weave of the scales devours all other hues; leaving blue alone to falsely rule. Just as Karner Blues and Morphos have courted you falsely, jays, beetles, and our sky have lied through their teeth. Blue is a mirage in the sand, a trickle of the beyond. We taste it. We do not have enough.
Heaven is blues’ host. Our veins give us false hope. They show us what we lack yet what we crave.
Even the bluebloods lack blue blood. The view of our veins is in vain.
Blood, inside and out, is honest red. In the body, it is dark red still. A cascade of stone, a mere spray of iron dust. It is the maroon of madness, the flare of exhilaration, the passionate roots of all men and women. Red is our code, our livewire, and our chemistry. Vermillion is the fresh blanket of the womb. It is the color we see first. Red is the creation of life.
Is that not Holy?
Red will never be blue. Roses take this truth with humility and sparkle to their advantage. They spin patterns in a velvet thought to be lawless. Even our mother Earth takes the hue of Ultisol. So then, why is red no red-letter day?
We are ashamed. We are courted by the color beyond our imagination. Within the murky confines of the soul, red is coughing and withering. The shade of earthly artistry is cast in the dimness, for what purpose?
Red is molten. It sears, cools, and crystallizes. It pools Within us– sloped by gravity. The force of Earth–a construct of symmetry and chaos– can never birth art if we exorcise it. The heartbeat of creation pulses under our skin, we hate it. Red is a terrifying tidal wave of might. We crave to strike the umber power beneath our feet and name our authority.
The molten furnishes sweetness to the fruit of the Earth. The bite may be sour, but it is not devoid of virtue. A direct and vulnerable connection to creation gives the created the power to create and the will to live. Separation from our founding forces will desecrate and destroy us violently and disparage our originator. No authority is truly held in the hands of man.
This is the deception of the color blue.
The key to Heaven is one you cannot forge.