There is this cloud lingering in my thoughts. I always found it a hindrance, this feeling that demands reciprocation when in reality it does nothing but pushes away further the thing of which it so desperately wants.
This shade of red I so greatly yearn, but then truly is it red, or is it a maroon? I have failed to see the latter as such. What right should I have then to judge when in truth I know not her colour?
Indeed, red is a beautiful colour. I see it fit I should understand the colour deeper. But a fool I am; despite already knowing the red is an illusion, and maroon may very well be a reality; that I still choose to paint this portrait of roses.
Joy is knowing maroon. But why do I keep seeing red?
Had you known my desperation I fear you will be alienated by me.