Words, they come to me as thoughts, sparks - bright yellow, gleaming in their own light. They then metamorphose into ideas - like glass that cools down. It's yellow when hot and sparkling clean when it becomes transparent. When it acquires the form it is supposed to live with. The colour it was born for.
Words are raw when they come to me. Some turn red - red with anger, red with love. Red with pain. Red with sacrifice. Some stay black and reek of the pessimistic ideas that one cannot somehow get rid of. Some have undertones of black and white.
Words are coloured. Often, multi-shaded. The colours of words are often more enthralling than the sky at twilight. The sky attributes its colour to the sun only. These colours are due to a medley of emotions that come up from the world's greatest palette - the human mind. The mind of the rising son.
Words are raw when they come to me. Some turn red - red with anger, red with love. Red with pain. Red with sacrifice. Some stay black and reek of the pessimistic ideas that one cannot somehow get rid of. Some have undertones of black and white.
Words are coloured. Often, multi-shaded. The colours of words are often more enthralling than the sky at twilight. The sky attributes its colour to the sun only. These colours are due to a medley of emotions that come up from the world's greatest palette - the human mind. The mind of the rising son.
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