The Colour of Love

I'm allergic to ignorance. I hate not knowing. This only applies to the petty things that do not really make any substantial impact in the development of my intellect or my day to day life. When it comes to the serious stuff that matter, ignorance is almost always bliss. I have a handicap.

Once I was hit by one of those rare self-reflection moments. A question popped up that has been a bee on my bonnet ever since. If love had a colour, what would be the colour of love?

My knowledge about love ranges from little to nothing. Don’t get me wrong. I've been in love before. Or so I thought. In that period of time, I did things that I, never came close to thinking, would ever do for someone. I was clueless, confused and completely under her spell. I was helpless. Funny enough, I liked it. I enjoyed every single minute in that effigy of my former opinionated self. It ended though, as they all do. I did my psychologically mandated 5 stages of grief and moved on. Was it my fault? Most likely. Was it her fault? Does that matter? Crying over spilt milk is not particularly my strong suit.

I digress; my thoughts are more often than not disorganized.

The colour of love; I always pictured the colour of love as red. This courtesy of years and years of being socially conditioned to believe red represents romance and by extension love. Red roses. The cupid arrow piercing a red heart (how this signifies love, you tell me), red envelopes for the love cards, red dresses on Valentine’s Day, red ties, red, red, red. It’s all a red affair. Or is it maroon? After a very unsuccessful head scratching and in the spirit of a problem shared is a problem solved I decided to ask a couple of friends for their two cents on the topic at hand. As expected, I ended up with more questions than answers. Now I know the colour of love is relative. The colour of love is a fluid concept that fits in the bottle you pour it in, no matter the shape and size.

I met this girl; A typical Kenyan girl who likes black forest cake, ice cream and of course, you guessed it right, pizza. She was fun to talk to; it was dark so I used her words to judge her looks. Wake up the following morning and she’s there, lying next to me. Let’s just say we slept off the hangover from the previous night. I touched her gently to wake her up. Turning, she looked me straight in the eye.

Dumbfounded, I had a deer in the headlights moment. It was like her sharp stare unravelled all my secrets, I could feel my soul unscrew into this huge lamp of dark secrets. I look at her hoping she would see who I wanted to be, not who I was. I hated myself for waking her up, I should have let go. I should have moved on. I should have let her believe I was the funny guy she talked to in the darkness. Now she knows the real me. How could she not, she is staring down my soul.

Then she smiled. The moment her succulent pink lips parted, it happened. Her white teeth came to full view. The smile was comforting and reassuring. I could feel the lump inside my stomach melt away, my soul screwing wearily back to its original position. It then hit me. The colour of love. White. The colour of her teeth when she smiles. White, the colour of her eyes. White, the colour of my soul whenever I think of her. White, the colour of purity in her laugh. White is the colour. I finally solved it. The colour of love is white.

Am I in love with her? That’s beside the point. Does she know I wrote about her? Probably not. Does she know her smile carries the colour of love? I doubt it, but that’s what makes her even more beautiful. Do you think the colour of love is white? I don’t care. Are we getting off topic? Yeah. Should I stop before I make a fool of myself? Hell yeah. Tonight I’ll rest in peace knowing I found the colour of love. The immense satisfaction that comes with this discovery is second to none. The colour of love is WHITE. My theory fits my facts. Does yours?

~DonDram