We are trying to create something of beauty. We can never prepare ourselves for the pain to come, for the love to be done.
Red is in the details of the matters of the heart.
Hearts kept alive by a special concoction of science and faith. The centers of highways of human connection and inspiration. A mess of one-ways and dead-ends.
Ruby earrings that dangle, that brush cheeks that flush, that blush. A warning of the shame of thoughts and the danger of feelings.
Fire that eats away method and reason. A passion that consumes and leaves nothing behind aside from the dusty reminders of nostalgia.
Unassuming rust that creeps silently in moments of envy, of pain, of hatred. It creaks, it crumbles, it breaks.
Blood painted on diary entries. A reminder for the artist of the art that moved. A reminder for the muse of the music that played.
Lips of roses. Gentle petals of half-truths; boastful thorns of half-lies. It is the fear and excitement of not knowing whether the bouquets celebrate endings or new beginnings.
A stop sign. A reminder to breathe. We inhale and exhale, and once again we are born into a world of red.