This is about the colour PINK

    Although pink has attracted hoards of adoring fans and has never been a colour one could even manage to forget about, most of the appreciation and popularity comes from the role it plays in selling traditional "girl" products. If pink was never declared to be the representative colour of the female sex, would we not have a more unsullied perception of this colour? In a world where pink is not regarded as a symbol for fragility and femininity, pink will already be largely recognised in all the diverse areas it appears. This piece of writing is a measly excuse to write extensively about the colour pink. 

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   Where pink exists there is beauty and there is delight.  It is a colour of passion, delicacy, happiness, intimacy...You see pink on a cold morning's walk in the beautiful discolouration of hibiscus leaves, in the paper-like petals of crape-myrtle and bougainvillea and on the eye-catching petals of peregrinas. You see pink on the tongue when your lover bursts out laughing at your horrible joke, and on the lips when your sister smiles so brightly and widely. You may see it on your fingertips after disobeying your mum and staying outside in the cold. You see it on the sugary and sweet delights that we designed to deliriously spoil ourselves on. Pink exists where we find ourselves smiling and where we find ourselves with a full heart, but is that all?

    Where there is pain and grief, there is pink. The colour comes out where life is so intense that it can no longer contain itself. In the wails of bereaved, with their heads thrown back and their mouths open wide, the tongue that once vibrated with giggles now writhes in shaking pain. The throat is scratched from shrieks and croaked, its muscles are a bleeding and strained pink. The colour that once appeared in moments of bliss now incites worry and expresses agony. Agony finds itself a voice in their bellies and comes out in loud shouts. It finds itself a body and it spreads out through their bodies, manifesting in the colour pink. Their eyes are no longer white, the tongue protrudes from the lips, some have the pink diffuse their skin. 

Some grievers see pink in so many manifestations because they refuse to leave the sides of their beloveds and endure the whims of weather. If they could survive to, they would crawl into the coffin and tenderly hold the body of the dead, cradle the head on their bosom and breathe in so deeply what ever scent remained on the crown of the dead's head until only decay and a skeleton would lie under the Earth with them. Because they cannot, they remain at the tombstone. 

They stay put in spite of the violent beatings from the rain drops of a belligerent storm. Their noses sniffle and their fingers lose all colour and feeling, each are tinted with the pretty faint red colour. They remain at the side of their beloveds in the middle of unforgiving heat and they would resist the creeping crushing embrace of cold in snowfall. No matter the weather, they will always return. Around them, flowers bloom and wilt over and over again until they have counted all the hundred days that the pink crape-myrtle has endured, and amount of leaves on the tree of the blush coloured oleander. 

    Attracted eternally to the sensual and romantic, pink appears in the ever so controversial and intimate act of cannibalism. Cannibalism is the final stage of romance, the path that the brave follow instead of ignoring the hunger stirring on the inside, and choosing to just die together, the way cowards do. It is no surprise that pink would be seen at such a stage. To progress from a mere kiss to truly eating your partner's face, from joining the bodies at only one part to truly tasting all that makes up a lover and have your lover truly inside you - does it not sound so magical? To stare at a mess of scattered pink on pearly white bone with a satisfied stomach, a heaving chest and a bloody mouth, it is nothing other than euphoric.    

Pink is revealed when teeth peel back soft skin. The body underneath is the skin is so beautiful, so delicious. Red blood tints the organs and the adrenaline that pumps after the realisation that one has been turned from a person into food seasons the meat. When the cannibal's teeth sink into pretty pink meat,  the eyes instinctively close and the other senses are overwhelmed and fixated. There is nothing left to do but listen to the rhythmic beating of the heart, to the crack of bones and the squelch of meat and liquid masticated in the mouth; inhale the air around the odourless meat, pressing the face so deep into the meat to enter into a pink paradise; taste the delectable material of the human being and feel the soft and chewy texture. 

    Pink is a monster that threatens to consume you. When you stand unrepentant and unfearing in the face of a blossomed hibiscus flower, the petals call upon like beckoning fingers and the colours swirl hypnotisingly into a stark white. The wind around you whispers sweetly in your ear and its song entrances you. You do not even realise when you have stepped close enough for the beautiful pink beast to eat you whole. 

    Pink can be seductive, pink can be jovial, pink can be plagued with pain, pink can be full of vengeance and fury, but in reality pink is just a colour that holds no power to feel and give itself meaning. Pink just happens to appear on the body, on the sweetest treats, in beautiful flowers, in the sky when the sun begins its descent to the other side of the world, and it is because it appears in all these places that I love it so dearly.

As always, thank you for reading

- M.