Paradox

(Sharing my essay here)

There was something definite and arcadia about the look in her eyes. The pair of them were filled with playful shades of brief, clever breathing lies. Psyched pale and sweet, naive and soft. Strutting by the skylines and dozing off the horizons, she was a pastel darling.

There was something inexplicit and ravenous about the touch of his heart. The surface of his soul were streaks of furious crimson, gorgeous blues and tender flushes of gold. Carved enticing and shapeless, loud and flamboyant. Dipping into midnight sheets and swimming into the creases of a sunny, morning bliss, he was a prismatic dream.

They were colors nameless beyond words. They were separated by cruel, fluid light. No palettes could have brought them together. No brush has painted them with one another. No canvass would have allowed them to craft a masterpiece. No artist ever showed the world how delicately dynamic it was to find love in colors hush and in tones madly driving. No one ever saw how it was like when their glances turn into loving stares. There was a craving tug in her stomach that weakened her as she looked into the most elusive pair of eyes: strange as the silhouette of the moon, relentless as the blood rushing into glowing veins. His mind frayed with that cruel, fluid light as he was drawn into the two cautious circles before him; too lifeless to be eyes, too erratic to be a soul. It was a single shift of gazes that shrouded their love with constant paradox. Mirrors tricked them into wanting divisions, into being trapped within more of their own visage but they always found fault in mirrors; they never fancied looking at their own colors. A pastel darling sought out a prismatic dream and a prismatic dream found reality in darling pastels. The universe chose to believe that sweetness was pale and that rebellion was polychromatic but the universe was just another superficial palette and canvass to her and to him; they believed the creativity of constant contrasts. A love was to be drenched in colors and it was his she chose. An artist needs a muse and it was her who held him captive.

Crawling into the depths of his head were her patches of beige and cream, washing him cold white, rendering his vivid emboss colorless. Dripping from the cuts of her skin to the ends of her hair were his rays of deep violets, stripping her off of her pastels, driving her into sorrowful silvers and lushes of green. More than the skies stretched to reach, more than time was ever constant to tell, more than any of us imagined to wake up to was a love nameless beyond words and darkly fatal as colors.