Black and Red, the two colors of human existence, so simple, so tribal, yet significant for all of us because they are engraved in our bones from the moment we exist as as atoms until we die as galaxies and they extend beyond to the lives in which our stars burn. Even though they seem so simplistic, these colors have deeper meanings that go deeper than the blood in our veins. Red shows our fatal flaw: passion. A seven letter word just like the seven sins, it destroys us. With so much ambition toward 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 begins to sink and I remember all the what-ifs that could have happened one way or another . It happens like this. Passion is the simplest instinct that we humans have, you, I and everyone you have ever met has had a passion for something. Whether it's acting, singing, or anything else, it's always there and it will undoubtedly tear you apart. Don't deny the fact, there is no honor in passion. We all end up the same, illness plagued by vibrant dreams that smash against the walls of our hearts, pushing our brains against a wall. It's true, I'm sorry to say, we all end up going crazy in some way. Your passion pushes you to forget that other people exist and suddenly your brain thinks you will make it and the white noise around you will fall away. That may be true, but what happens when your hell dies and you're just a shell of what you wanted to be? Do you still have what you did? Or are you drifting into the black hole of society? Perhaps during your hibernation incubation you will have discovered the meaning of our black color, just like me. Black, oh, doesn't it 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 the warmth of a million impressions. However, the skin regenerates and all your impressions, these marks left by your trembling lips during the captivating hours, have disappeared. How I fear the thought that they will never be imitated by another nor restored by you, my lonely star that refuses to go out. So it is for you, my dear star, that I paint my lips red. The blood of my heart stains my lips with the most sinful color, if only to show that you still burn within me. My fingers are permanently stained black from your last contact. Bye. It stinks, it's so gloomy, but all I can think about is the night. Your hands linger on mine, oozing black ooze, just crying out for the attention you so desire, and how I wish I could show you now that you've moved to another galaxy.