The Colour White
I’m sharing my musings on The Colour White (and its twin post, The Colour Black) with a particular intent, which is to stand up for what I believe is the most important thing for anybody who wants to write or create something.
The most important thing is to show up, howsoever the outcome.
I may be far from happy with these two pieces. But this is what emerged during the (almost) daily writing practice that I’ve recently committed to. This is evidence of the fact that I actually did what I had promised myself I would do, which is to sit at my desk and write, even if it was at the fag end of a long day full of a thousand other things.
This is what emerged when I decided to show up, even if tired, reluctant, and convinced beyond doubt that what I would write would be below par (so why bother).
This is what I wrote when harsh voices in my head told me over and over again that I know nothing, and can say nothing that would ever matter.
Grateful to my partner for providing inspiration with these seemingly random, but actually well-thought-out prompts on days when I had no clue what to write about.
The Colour White
White is a colour. White is all the colours.
A prism splits sunlight. A rainbow arcs.
White is virgin.
Radiant sunlight on a bride, white flowers in her hair.
White is a void.
The pale sun gleams on widows in white. Winds whistle through the emptiness.
White is snow.
Snow lit ethereal by northern lights. Snow in my freezer keeps dead meat fresh.
White is white hawk.
Bird of prey. Bold white band on a black tail. Black upper wing dusted in white. Loyal to their mate.
White is no iron to bind red blood.
White-faced, weak, hungry mouths sucking a limp bosom.
White is immaculate.
Mother Mary. The colour of saints. A priest praying in a silent cathedral.
White is not a colour.
A little girl rubs her white crayon on paper. It doesn’t talk back.
White is death.
Frozen. No flicker. The soul has fled.
