I was born blue. The moment I opened my lazy, day-late baby blues and began surveying the world, my mother knew she'd been right. Her little azure blue.

My eyes now are softer and greener. The cerulean rim remains. They're open halves of blueberries, revealing light teal flesh. Azure does have an element of green. Have I become more myself, as I've gotten older?

"Like the colour?" Like the colour. Like freshly laundered ocean or a brand new sky. I'm not blue enough to sing the blues--not dark enough to be a twilight navy. I'm not powdered, either, or pastel. I'm bold without being neon, light without being washed-out, bright without being blinding.

Every time I introduce myself, I reaffirm my identity: existing in, personifying, and being azure. And like azure, I set out to everything in life with cheerful determination. I'd like to work on that boldness a little bit more, but everything else matches to a T.

It's been a strange experience, when asked who you are, to say that you are a colour. And yet, I wouldn't have it any other way. No one else really wants to be blue, so I bear the mantle for them. No one wants the single dimension of it: "I am blue, I am sad." It's so painfully clear-cut; no room for flexibility.

It's only because I am actually blue that I understand the truth: blue is complex. It isn't all one thing; there are as many shades of blue as there are birds in the cyan sky. And even the shades are complex. Yes, I am one thing, because I am azure. But I am also many things, because I am azure.

Crocuses open their bright wide trumpets

Heralds of brand new life.

Their inaudible song is filled with the hues

Of purple, orange and white.

Before them, the earth was barren and brown,

After them, it will be vibrant.

But here, while the world’s still a washed-out place,

These blossoms display their excitement.

I can’t help but notice that definite line

Of violet contrasting with beige;

There’s hope to be found even when you’ve been hit

With challenging, colourless days.

So I welcome them all with a song of my own

And we are a choir together;

I feel in my heart the promise they’ve made—

There soon will be beautiful weather.

#writing #flowers #spring #hope

Imagine that everyone constantly thinks about how little you fit in. My defining characteristic is my inability to match something; another word, that is. I am both admired and faulted for my name, my name that carries no resemblance to any other word, no matter how much it's twisted around. "Oh-range...homage?" Sigh.

I make people uncomfortable. My name's refusal to play twinsies with other terms in the vernacular notwithstanding, my appearance is bold. Loud. Of the brights, yellow gets a bit more attention. She's cheerful; she reminds people of the sun. Of butter and gold and optimism. Me, I'm yellow with a rebellious streak of red; I carry more of a threatening fire. And so I divide people; I'm one of those "love or hate" scenarios. For those who love me, I'm their fave. For those who don't, they would stack all the other colours over me.

Still, I don't mind, so much. Just because I notice this mixed reaction doesn't mean that I let it wound me. I appreciate what I am. I take pride in my versatility. I'm in the softness of nature, the most delicate petal or monarch's wing. I'm the crisp, daring exterior of my namesake fruit. I'm artistic as a sunset, shocking as a traffic cone. I'm on the surface of autumn leaves and in the wax of crayons. I understand that the reason some people dislike me is the same reason people like me: I don't look or sound like anything else. I'm a reminder to be unapologetically you.

#orange #writing #beyourself

To me, success and struggle are inherently intertwined; in a sense, some struggles are successes; as the Scottish say, "Failing means you're playing." In other words, the fact that you're feeling the heat and sweat, whether you acheive your objective or not, means that you're in the game. The phrase itself implies that participation is its own reward; avoiding struggle by staying on the sidelines is its own loss.

One loses out on many things by trying to avoid struggle: the chance to succeed, the chance to grow and learn. So yes, struggle is a beautiful thing. Success can be beautiful too, even thrilling. Both have their merits. The key, as with anything, is to look for the balance. Life is a series of setting goals and trying to reach them. It's important to both celebrate the goals when they are reached, but also to enjoy the process; not viewing your life as endless jumping, from one milestone to the next. For one, all that jumping gets tiring (ever spend a day shooting hoops?) So if you're going to play ball, try to make the basket and try to enjoy it. The sweat is a part of the game.

#writing #struggle #success

Collateral of damaged youth

I cut my leg, I chipped my tooth

I slipped and fell, a lesson learned

But is a lesson ever earned?

Did it vanish in the sun

Or has my childhood just begun?

Have I grown an ounce more wise

Or am I just a frame incised?

What would another person see

Behind my broken, bonded teeth?

Reading is a haven for me, but also a place where I’m inspired to look at life differently. One story that has changed me profoundly is The Little Prince. The Little Prince is always in my mind, nipping at corners in my memory, burning brightly in my chest, touching—singeing—some of the things I don’t want to face, and warming and comforting me when the world is too cold. Few books have shaped my life like The Little Prince has. I’ve built an aesthetic around stars and foxes; I’ve related endless experiences to its quotations.

But why The Little Prince in particular? It came into my life at a very early age; I didn’t understand it, but there was something about the story that made me keep on returning to it. I soon discovered that what makes The Little Prince so remarkable is that it’s a story that grows with you. The more living you do, the more you see in it and appreciate various aspects of the novel. Over the years I’ve reread The Little Prince again and again. Each time I revisit it, at different stages of my life, I gain something new. The Little Prince helped me discover that reading is not just a hobby, but a lifelong friend.

The Little Prince is a strange story; no summary does it justice. It isn’t about its wonky plot or talking foxes. It’s a symbolic tale about life.

The author, Antoine de Saint-Exupery, was a writer and flyer, restless traveler, and searcher. After a life of danger and indulgence, of accumulating experiences, of loving and lying, of being praised for his philosophical smarts, what does he sit down to write?

Something so simple, it gets mistaken for a children’s book.

The story often strikes me as confessional. Shadows and memories, regrets and hopes dance around his brain. He speaks about his life in metaphors, hiding clues in plain sight, spinning it into something that resembles a legend, like one of Aesop’s fables.

Its genius lies in its simple presentation but enormous scope. It covers grief, love, friendship, discovery, and all the nuances in between (when you feel you can’t comfort someone, when miscommunication stings, when mourning the loss of originality in the world, and when making the best of your circumstances). The Little Prince has helped me understand love and friendship on a deeper level. It’s helped me hold on to my inner child. It’s helped me reflect on true matters of importance.

At a time when World War II was decimating hopes everywhere, The Little Prince discussed how to keep a sense of spirituality, of hope. It’s about the power of imagination, the power of choosing to have certain people in your life—the responsibility we have for them, and what makes them special. It’s always left me feeling happy, understood, and ready to look at the world through new eyes—and I quote, “you will see how everything changes.”