I read somewhere,
“Color is such a strange concept.
Combine them all, it is white- “
A certain suspicion arose in my head, from the perception that almost everything we have ever learnt is theoretical-
So I went and started talking to my crayons.
I saw almost all the sticks staring at me with a sullen expression, I took White out, I didn’t want him to hear about my questions.
I didn’t know how he might feel about them.
Me: Has anybody ever combined all of you perfectly enough to get white?
Brown ( with a wizened smile, like he was indulging an ignorant child): Would you want that- to watch your beautiful colors disappearing into the sheet?
Yellow (Mumbling from the back ): White is such a prudish motherfucker.
I look at her, curious- but before I can ask, others join in.
Grey: Such a hypocritical little thing,
Purple: Looming over us in its pristine glory- telling the rest of the shades they are worthless.
Fuchsia: Bloody tyrant. Remember what he did that day?
Grey: Oh yes, Sky Blue was so content with being the color of summer, then White made clouds plod over his work, snorting in derision- “I beautify you. You’re bland without me.” The nerve of that worthless colour!
Forest Green: Oh yes, he goes on and on about how he is unique.
I finally interrupt them-
Me: B-but he is wrong, all of you are unique why don’t you fight back?
Orange (cackling with laughter, before snorting): He is not, Have you heard of shades of white?
As I stumble for an answer Lavender cuts in
Lavender: No, I know you are thinking about your yellowed shirts, they don’t count. They are dirty white- but they are still white.
Black( wearily, like a world-wise crone): Yet you mix white in aquamarine, Prussian, cobalt- all of them blend, break, yielding to the power of white.
Cobalt (muttering under-breath):Fucking dictator.
In a while almost everyone is silent, discontent. There are slight sniffing sounds-
Yellow is crying, so is green.
Everybody is thinking: White is simply that level of unrealistic perfection which no color can reach.
Check your box of crayons, In mine, Red is slitting her wrists, because that day she painted a rose and then White ran all over her work- since Pink was away.
Pink cried for hours, asking if she was really so easily replaceable.
While Red stared out of the hole in the cardboard box, pensive and wracked with guilt.
Nobody is anybody.
It’s kind of depressing, really.
I was right though, Perfection is theoretical.