White roses red

Why, dare I ask, are you so distressed by the idea of blood? Is it not made of water? Are we also not made of water, bred in the bosom of water, transported in each and every possible manner through water itself? Some of us are even murdered in water, tainting aqua pura with red, barbarically condemned to wander through dry earth, drenched in blood, for all eternity — however short or long our olympic or orphic, dead or alive, existent or non-existent deities might decide it to be.

So, in all good faith, what is the worriment about blood? And what is the dilemma in an abundance of blood? If I were to, say, dehydrate, could I be granted a flake of sand? Or am I too impure a sinner? — Not that terra firma is ever so fresh and immaculate.

Could the flames ever comfort me? I appear to be craving — and carving — red. Perhaps I just need a few lines and drops to rouge my white canvas. Hell, I would even welcome blue, if it only meant bringing art back from the dead — by Thanatos, I swear, I would settle down for contemporary art… Still, even that is dead; all I see is classic, foggy white.

Yes, I have to admit, white is cozy. White is my shining armor, within which I am untouchable. White is ice — and isn’t ice also made of water? White is a castle and I am its Queen, though I wouldn’t hesitate so much on burning my crown, my throne, my veil, my skin, my heart and my soul if only for a beat of red euphony.

I would trade my kingdom — pray, hear — not for a horse, but for a ruby, or even simply a rose — whether it be a white rose red, or a viole(n)t blue. But I have been too deeply infected, too gravely poisoned, too thoroughly invaded and consumed, irrevocably drained white. The rainbow feels like a remote dream now. Every little thing feels like a distant, foggy, white dream. Still… if "all that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream", I wonder: would it be so impossible to imagine that white within white could, at some point, shine crimson red?

But even if I followed a white rabbit down a hole and painted the white roses red — and off with their head, they would say — I would still drench the petals in white. I would flood them to bits and pieces until there was nothing left but blue water from my tears, until all I could see was white again. Perhaps I would even drown in my own tears, as I have an Alice complex I cannot quite get rid of.

So what is the trouble in a little blood for a change? So what if I am painting the white roses red, if only to prove that somewhere deep within this hazy morgue there remains a beating crimson heart? Will the authorities chop off my head? Will I even care?

Well, I don’t have a lot of red… But I could write you a poem in blue… I could dare to make you a masterpiece in waves — if only I weren't so afraid of drowning.

Could we ever learn how to swim?

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