Colored Pencils Lined up in neat rows, a rainbow in a box. Each shiny and pointy and vibrant and all-around perfect. My finger glides over the leads, bright, cheery colors. What color will I choose first? Pick me, pick me, they all shout. Golden boasts its sunny glow. Sky blue jostles the others to get a good spot. Bubblegum pink giggles and winks. Lime green shouts and lets out wolf whistles. Orange praises its own citrus tang. Each is a billboard, a TV advertisement. One done in a high-pitched voice. By a guy who smiles too much. So what will I choose? Don’t mind me, says gentle orchid. A whisper, shy, fragile, a butterfly's wing. A pale summer grape. A flash of new dawn. A rosebud, opening slowly. Don't mind me. Choose a different one. The boasters. The screamers. The flashy ones. Maybe you'll find what happiness means in their intimidating glares. No. I pick up orchid. It fits well in my hand, built for it and it alone. I touch it to paper. A 100-page spiral-bound sketchbook. Fine, good-quality paper. A mark. A line. Thin and barely noticeable. The first stitch of color on a fabric of cream satin. Another, thicker, bolder, stronger. Another. Side to side. Filling in a space. The page comes to life. Shadow and sunlight. Depth and dimension. From pastel shades with creamy swirls to darker tones like an orchard at midnight. Orchid sings a song of life, rebirth, joy. Peace, calm, celebration. Gentle passion. A song. A story. A life. Later, orchid lays to rest beside mauve and taupe. To sleep until another day, another page, another life. Another beginning. What next? Maroon opens its eyes, shows me its crimson depths. I can see blood there. Honest blood. Pure blood. Soldiers whose blood is shed so others may live. Nothing to be scared of. A story of life. Its name calls to me, like the call of a lonely bird. Maroon. Maroon. Maroon. A battlefield, a banner. Triumph. It unfolds on the second page. Spinning its own story of life. Maroon is sheathed between red and violet, until tomorrow, when its blade may be needed again. Mango glows softly in the tropical sun. It speaks of palm trees. Of sunrises and round, sweet fruit. Of monkeys performing in the high branches and chittering to each other in their strange tongue. It sounds like laughter. Children's innocent laughter, untouched by the hatred of man. The third page is a scene of happiness. Sweet exuberance. A child playing in the afternoon sun. On a tire swing. Higher, lower, in circles, dips, crests, arcs. Carefree joy shines on its face. It knows nothing of the pain being mature can bring. A story of life. Of freedom and light. Jade green, pale blue, indigo, slate. Each has their turn. Each adds another thread to the endless tapestry. The song of living. The story of life. --- Dug this up while searching for an old school report on my laptop. Personally, I still like it. What do you guys think?