If we were all colors, I wonder which one I’d be. I’d hate to be opaque, with no chance of anything going through me, or any sort of inky blue (as nice as it looks on a wall), leaving smudgy marks on everyone, like the smudge on the outer side of my left hand when I write letters. I don’t think I am anywhere close to Red; I am far too pensive and hesitant. I am closer to water, but not like rain; I am too soft for the ocean and too much a tempest to be a still lake. I’d like to be colorful enough to leave something, like a glimmer, but not fussy like a diamond. If someday I could be the color of a spark, which is embodied in the start of a little mischief, and also when standing on cliffs and hills and mountains; that switch in my stomach when you step on a plane, and the gleam of the sun on the bedroom wall to hint at the morning, and the way it burns just before peaking back over the horizon for the night; the flicker in your eye when you see something lovely; to be a spark would be enough for me.