When I was in art school, I took a class that required me to describe every single feeling and sensation in colors. I remember that class well, since I am a very, very visual creature, and tend to experience things through seeing. Having said that, I can't remember faces or street signs, but I can remember the color of the room I met that person in, or that of the flowers on that street. I am not a particularly articulate speaker, either, and now that I am also bilingual I often find myself speaking in a strange blend that I call italenglish. I flush bright pink and stammer, and feel like I'm gulping for air.
That class like fine wine to me, and I felt like I was really speaking my own language. Finally. I haven't thought of my life in colors in a long while, so for old time's sake, I'll give it another try 20 years later.
Today I am the color of hay.
My future is the color of sea mist.
My mornings in Colorado are the color of green spring leaves.The fresh taste and smell things new, promising and even fragile.