I have never really been fascinated by the color red. Black has always been my color of choice. My wardrobe is filled with black. My moods are often black. I crave the darkness of the night. But when I think of ‘red’ and I think of 2017, I am reminded of one thing – red is the colour of love. But red is also the color of anger, and is there any difference?
I have seen the red of love change to the red of love this year, shapeless forms of swirling reds morphing and raging against the dying of the light. I have seen red mutilate the ones I love. That red is my anger. I have been a short-tempered person all my life. Only in the past few years have I learnt to be aware of my anger. To be aware that you are angry is a huge step – when you realize where the ugliness of your anger comes from, you go to a calmer place almost immediately.
This year, I regret that even though I was aware of my anger, I was aware more of my ego’s desire to feed itself. I was the red in the clown. I was the red in the eye of the tiger. I was the red when the monster called. I wonder if 2018 would be a different color. I wonder if 2018 would mean red for love and not for anger. I wonder if the warm palettes of our lives can be washed away, melted into the soft corners of our memories, until that which was is no longer is. To all those who I have hurt with my anger this year, forgive me, please. And may you find more beauty and joy in red than I did.
