Work Text:
Red.
Such an pulchritudinous sight.
The ringing in the distance would absolutely say that this word is a bit too much to describe it, but that falls on deaf hands. Red is its lifeblood, its viewers' lifeblood. Red is all it knows, and it need know nothing more, and nothing less.
The color of passion, of which it sure is adamant about introducing this dull chaos to. A wildfire of soaking, plasmic magnificence, seeping into every surface it can possibly set its mind on. A little over there, a little over here, a little over all everywhere. The flick of the bony wrist is all it takes to bring that passion further, and further and further it goes.
The color of attention, sticking out like a sore, swollen thumb unlike anything else on the maze of a field. By drawing in the eyes, it rips away the feet. Darting off who-knows-where just to get tagged by some hideous creature who's only willing to listen to the flowing voices of the canvas when it benefits their own hard work alone.
The color of energy, all the sounds and sights of the mesmerizing hues revitalize it like nothing else ever could. As those who breathe life onto the canvas breathe life in from it, they will feel the current of further motivation, sparking and crackling onto more and more surfaces. Those who slow down are nothing more than sloths, only taking from the masterpiece and never giving a constructive insight.
The color of desire, something it has seen time and time again. New roads in the blink of an eye. Frivolous distractions all solely for a fleeting moment of happiness, only to crumble apart in its own shameful existence. A masterpiece cannot be summoned out of nowhere. Even the tiniest speck of sanguine brought by broken fingers leaves more to ponder than the mindlessness of running around in circles of one's own greed. And as these false roads fall, so will their shameful excuse for creators.
The color of anger, rage, aggression. A mosquito will beg for it's life. To not to. To reconsider. But mosquitos don't need the time of day. Mosquitos are not artists, they are pests who's words drip with plague. Hissing a storm when things don't look the way they wanted it to; one shall cry the artist criminal for daring to depict the idea of cruor in the very first place. Yet they drink, always they drink. Stepping foot onto all this hard work as though it were the mouth of a Venus flytrap, and maybe just one day, they'll silence their critique for good.
Not everyone it knows will enjoy the color red. And it is rather unfortunate. But as the cones draw the sight to the eyes, it is ultimately up to the mind to decide how to go about the gory sight. And most often, it's to run away.
Red.
The color of danger, after all.