A life of pink for someone oh so blue, oh what a dream. The skies would be green with envy - they could only dream of turning into an array of colors so lovely. A life of pink is when the love songs start to sound like their voice and when the stars began to falter in brightness in comparison to their smile. What a blissful experience to be a captive of the heart, to feel it explode into a million pieces every time they walk into the room. It is a life lived in a kaleidoscope of colors and it is blinding and overwhelming but this is what it means to live a life of pink, or as the French call it, La Vie en rose.
How does one truly believe in a life as such if she believes she lived her life in a state of blue? She ceases to believe that any other color exists because her eyes are accustomed to the lonely color of the sky. She is familiar to the taste of heartbreak, even at the young age of seven. Even though her eyes cling to images of beautiful princesses running to the arms of a loving man, she is confused by how her beautiful queen of a mother runs away from the arms of a man who knew nothing of love. There is an orchestra once again at home, it is plates playing cymbals and doors being drums. She begins to hate music, she puts her palms against her ears and envies the deaf. But most of all, she envies the numb.
My grandmother once turned to me and whispered, “I was only forced to marry. I don’t think I was ever in love.” She confesses this to me while she was surrounded by thousands of books that spoke only of love. I simply nodded and returned to my room - I began to crumple every stupid poem I wrote of love. A girl who knew nothing of it but continued to dream of it, I wrote like love was what fed the hungry and healed the sick. I vomited before I went to bed; I stopped dreaming before I even went to sleep.
The life of pink was something too bright for me to see with my own eyes. I was used to the dark and that is all I ever knew. I began to believe that I will only see dark until the day I die, that the only light I will ever see is when the Almighty decides it is time for me to rest in His arms. I look up on to the sky and see only blue - that is, until, fireworks began to explode before me and I wondered why I ever thought the sky was dull. He is a firecracker, an explosion in the night sky when the clock strikes twelve. He is what makes us all count down to midnight, he is what makes the wait worth it. I met a boy in class and he intrigues me when he introduces himself as a boy who loves trains and films. He then infuriates me when he decides to steal my chair in class. He then interests me when he approaches me and asks me what my dream in life is. He becomes a best friend, an enemy, an accomplice, and finally, my love. He takes my hand and asks me if I wanted to watch the sunset. As the sun bows down to kiss the sea, he whispers his confession of love - I turn to the sky and see a beautiful array of colors, I began to see the blue sky turn to pink.
With this newfound belief in love comes numerous realizations, as well. It exists and just like everything else that does, it comes with pain. It is more than easy to hold the hand of your lover or to kiss his lips before he leaves for home, but surely nothing this beautiful would be so easy. Just like the sky, there are days wherein the clouds hang too close to the ground and the its blues turn to greys. Sometimes his jokes go too far or your “10 minutes” take too long. Some days, the skies turn to storms and both of you let the fear get to you and forget the love. It is not easy to open up and bleed to someone when all you’ve ever witnessed were wounds turning into scars. Love did not exist - or at least, not anymore - in your very own home. Love did not exist when your friends ran to you crying because some boy forgot to love them. Love did not exist when you watched your grandmother being buried with her words still echoing in your mind. Love did not exist when you know what it is like to beg your mother to stay and your father to stop. I never knew of love, so when a boy came up to me and spoke of love, I simply did not understand.
There is this fear that I will end up like my friends, or my grandmother, or perhaps, my parents. I look around and I still wonder if love has become a dead language and only a few can still speak it. The fear of love has made us unable to speak the language, we turn into illiterate fools who mispronounce and misspeak. They say English is the universal language and even though I’d love to argue that it is love, I take a look around and begin to see why.
Perhaps love is the language of the ancient. Maybe only a chosen few still understand every word of it. Maybe my parents never learned how to speak it and maybe my grandmother was never given the chance to practice it. However, I turn to him and I can feel my tongue twisting into unfamiliar words that I know only he would understand. Sometimes, he whispers to me in a language only my heart can understand, as well. If love truly is a dead language, then maybe we are lovers who believe in reincarnation.
When he decided to approach me and talk to me, I was watching the sunset alone. When he said he loved me, I was watching the sunset with my hand in his. I have always been watching the sky with lonely eyes. I was always a girl living in a state of blue, green with envy with how colorful the sky was when the sun began the set, dreaming of a life of pink - but with him, I have seen and felt every color.
*All photos are mine.
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