Wandering through life as though dreaming, each landscape one in a constantly shifting kaleidoscope: the world turns red, and this red means desperation.
I don’t know this forest, but the color is out of season, and cries from the unseen birds above echo in a isolated and desultory way. I’m desperate for a way out, but, I can’t find one; I would blame myself for being here, if the concept of blame had any meaning in this place. The world has turned red, and this red carries tinges of anger – a hopeless sort of anger, but anger, nonetheless.
I think I’m being followed: but all there is out here is time, and time stopped following me awhile ago – I couldn’t say how long, of course. Fear and panic are loyal companions, and loyalty is a precious commodity – or so I seem to recall.
The world turns red; the red is everywhere, and I — desperate, isolated, and angry — am nowhere.
He slowly poured the wine into each glass, taking in the moment. He couldn’t believe he was here, that they were here. But there she was; and as he handed her the glass, the red liquid shone in the candlelight, and he knew — this was real, and beyond real.
Some moments just blaze up in red, and when they do, they never really burn out.
So how do artists make a truth
That others cannot see?
Since when did colors blaze out there,
But not in you and me?
Why is the passion in the paint,
In stroke, and space, and line —
And how can art display more love
“The world is hard and cruel; but we don’t have to be. We don’t have to be bitter, and we don’t have to waste any of our energy protesting fate.”
That’s what she told me.
“Yes. In my experience, fate makes a very indifferent audience…. but see: the sun rises red; and the red in the flags outside, and in our veins is one and the same. Life flows and ebbs, ever red: just as the sun may glow yellow during it’s heyday, but starts and ends each day colorem rubeum.”
I see her there, beautiful and stately in her white robe, with red trim, and I see, and know, that while illness can take our energy, our bones, our muscles – even our lives – it never can destroy what is truly beautiful in us, so long as those who have experienced it can share it. And others after them. There is one love, one blood, one common humanity.
One common humanity.