The Plainest Yellow

Yellow and red were opposites in many ways. The marigolds and the roses. But still together they remained, tangled on the bent weeds and this morning’s dew.

The sun wasn’t out that day, nor did the bird's chirp. Every sound was the doing of the somber wind, echoing a long-forgotten plea on the high moors. The marigolds so silent they seemed to be as one force. One field of gold. Golden wasn’t the right color for these flowers, they had seen too much to be considered something as beautiful. So, if they must be described then they would be just yellow. The plainest yellow that someone could imagine. Dull and unthreatening.

That’s where I rested, among the subtle breeze and the wildflowers. My eyes stared unclosing into the sky, feeling the storm encroaching further on my meadow. Afraid to close them, afraid that in that time everything would disappear. A mouse scurried across expanse to my left, unaware that I was even there. Smaller than any other I've ever seen. I lay unmoving, open to the elements and the gifts they extend in an offering. We had everything to gain from our Mother Earth, but in truth we accepted nothing. We chose to blaze our own trail, one of impatience and red. Yet a thing none of us can avoid, is our return to the ground.

A playful melody, a song of someone long ago. Faint, as if coming from across the wind. A calling of our ancestral plane. Calming, never-ending, and knowing of true strength. Whether or not we return the call is trivial.

Some people find thunder unnerving, like an angered God coming to display his power before weaker subjects. I choose not to believe in such nonsense, for a God would not have to put his power back into the minds of people to regain as he was a millennia ago. Real Gods know nothing of torment, only rehabilitation. Thunder was a reminder, one that we should not forget quickly. Mother Earth, as great as she is, cannot control the tide, nor the skies. That every life is valuable, but not guaranteed. Maybe that makes me heartless, but I cannot find myself lacking one. Maybe that makes me filled with ill-thinking, yet I feel no sickness. Maybe I’m numb to it all, the wind against my fingertips all due to a trick of the mind. Whatever I am, is only that, what I am.

Red is a truly disastrous color. It really brings about so little joy in one's life. The roses of another eternity, their marigold counterparts drooping against the subtle blaze. Even the yellow, the plainest, easiest, yellow cannot tame it. The skies with blue-grey tendrils snaking towards the ground cannot contain it. It spills over everything, consuming things in its path like a thick wave. It’s an angry color and darker than the depths we are willing to push into our own minds. There’s little to stop red, the flow of it is inevitable.

It runs deep from our beings, our life hood, and our protection. Until it will pour from my veins, from my neck and from my eyes until the last drop rests on my lashes. For the yellow cannot stop it, and the blue grey cannot reverse time. The red is a sickness that humanity cannot save itself from. So, we sit politely until it is our turn, for the faces to grow pale and the breath shallow.

Until all the red is gone from our bodies, ready to return to the ground. Eyes unclosing to the grand, thunderous sky, and the wind whispering our fatal plea.