new beginnings
I can hear the fresh page turn. The crisp smell of new paper and deep purple ink just waiting to b explored. The excitement of unread pages, new knowledge, and experiences previously untrodden fill me with anticipation. And yes, the ink is purple.
Not a pale lavender, like the flower fields I visited a few days ago with by brother, but a dark, majestic, Tyrian purple. An imperial purple, a royal color, that under the wrong light can even seem black at times, but should never, ever, be mistaken as such.
I'm not exactly sure why the ink is purple. Perhaps to convey some message about the in-between, purple is after all neither black nor white. It has power, this color worn once only by royalty, and it is filled with emotion. Passion, wisdom, friendship, sympathy, and even rage. It is also the color of change, of commitment, of spring, and of Lent.
And the paper, while it seems new, unexplored, and fresh to the touch, is the faded yellow of ages past. The hue of an older, long patient friend who has listened often and heard you cry. It speaks to me of times past, of history that gets rewritten, and of grounding for that ridiculously purple ink.
This is no second grade girl writing notes with her gel pens, but an older, more contemplative one, exploring once again the purple of this world. And creating, with the brush of her pin or the flip of the page, the authentic colors of this autumn on the pages of life.
Not a pale lavender, like the flower fields I visited a few days ago with by brother, but a dark, majestic, Tyrian purple. An imperial purple, a royal color, that under the wrong light can even seem black at times, but should never, ever, be mistaken as such.
I'm not exactly sure why the ink is purple. Perhaps to convey some message about the in-between, purple is after all neither black nor white. It has power, this color worn once only by royalty, and it is filled with emotion. Passion, wisdom, friendship, sympathy, and even rage. It is also the color of change, of commitment, of spring, and of Lent.
And the paper, while it seems new, unexplored, and fresh to the touch, is the faded yellow of ages past. The hue of an older, long patient friend who has listened often and heard you cry. It speaks to me of times past, of history that gets rewritten, and of grounding for that ridiculously purple ink.
This is no second grade girl writing notes with her gel pens, but an older, more contemplative one, exploring once again the purple of this world. And creating, with the brush of her pin or the flip of the page, the authentic colors of this autumn on the pages of life.
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