Black and Red the two colors of human existence, so simple, so tribal, yet significant to us all as they are burned into our bones from when we exist only as atoms to when we die as galaxies and they extend beyond to the lives in which our stars burn. Although they seem so simplistic, there are deeper meanings in these colors that run deeper than the blood in our veins. Red shows our fatal flaw: passion. A seven letter word just like the seven sins destroys us. With so much ambition towards our greatest passion we misjudge things, neglect others, and forget the simplicities of life. Maybe that's why when I think about how the future will be painted my heart starts to tighten and I remember all the hypotheses that could have happened somehow. It works like this. Passion is the simplest instinct we humans have, you, I and everyone you have ever met have had passion for something. Whether it's acting, singing or anything else, he's always there and will undoubtedly knock your socks off. Don't deny the fact, there is no honor in passion. We all end up the same, sick people tormented by vibrant dreams that crash against the walls of our hearts, pushing our brains against a wall. It's true, I'm sorry to say, in a certain sense we all end up angry. Your passion pushes you to forget that others exist and suddenly your brain spins with the thought that you will make it and the white noise around you will fall away. Maybe that's true, but what happens when your hell shuts down and you're just a shell of what you wanted to be? Do you still have what you made? Or are you drifting into the black hole of society? Perhaps during the incubation of hibernation you will have discovered the meaning of our black color just as I have discovered it. Black oh it doesn't seem... middle of paper... one of the millions of stars that burn within me to make me shine so brightly that my body burns to the touch with the heat of a million impressions. Yet the skin regenerates and all your fingerprints, those marks left by your trembling lips during the bewitching hours, are gone. How I dread the thought that they will never be imitated by another or restored by you, my lone star that refuses to go out. So it is for you, my dear star, that I paint my lips red. My heart's blood stains my lips with the most sinful of colors, if only to show that you are still burning in me. My fingers are permanently stained black from your last touch. Until we meet again. It stinks, it's so sad, but it's the only thing I think about at night. Your hands linger on mine, black ooze seeping just screams for the attention you craved, and as I longed, I could show you now that you've moved to another galaxy.