Once, during art class, I had mixed a little red in with my white paint. I asked my teacher how to make it white again, and she said that it would never be white again. That was the first time I realized something surprising. White is nothing. White is a blank page, waiting to be filled. White is easily damaged and hard to repair. That is when I began to love black. Black is all of the colors, mixed and blended in a sort of harmony. Where white is stark, a nothingness that disturbs some deep part of me, black is warm and welcoming, pretty and ugly colors mixed together. Black is hard to ruin and easy to fix. Black is the night, the time of monsters, and the time of lovers. Black is the color of seduction, slow and soft, wrapping itself around you. White belongs to the day, to rational thought and to hasty goodbyes. White is the morning after seduction, when the bed is cold and empty, with none of the warmth the night had.
People are the same. Heroes are white, a pure blinding achingly delicate beautiful white. I don't like heroes, because heroes care because they must care or they will no longer be white. They care gently, tenderly, honestly. A villain now, that is something I can appreciate. A villain is black, full of conflict and a blur of colors. They embrace it all, because that is what makes them who they are. A villain does not love tenderly or easily. A villain loves fiercely, desperately, with a raw savage emotion you will never see out of a hero. Yes, a villain hates more than they love, but the hate is also full of that passion, that drive, a pure emotion blended by all the little emotions that make a true rage something spectacular. A villain is a thunderstorm, crashing above head, lightning forking in all directions, rain that threatens to wash you away. Pure, unleashed, elemental emotions. A hero is the old tree swaying in the winds, but never breaking. Quiet, self-contained, seeking only to retain it's place.
You can have your sweetness, I like the sharp tang that lets my senses know I am alive. You can have your noon tea in a delicate room, I like the wind whipping my face viciously as I fly into the gale. You can keep your faith and hope, I will live on dreams and ambition. Don't cry for me, I do not regret my choice. I want to feel also. I want to know the whole spectrum of life, and if I should die for that, all I want is to be buried in black, the way I lived. Dress me in black, paint the coffin black, transport me in the black hearse. Lower me into the black hole as I go into the black of oblivion, knowing that even oblivion itself feels. And if you wish to relieve the black, at least a little bit, tuck a rainbow scarf in my pocket, just above my heart, to remind you of what black really is. Black is a rainbow, and at the end of every rainbow is a pot of gold.