A Tribute to the Colour Blue
Illustration by Kaitlyn Orge
It always starts with that stale question, the one fumbled in every get-to-know-you situation imaginable: “What’s your favourite colour?”
It’s always met by the answer I clutch as if my lips demand its use: “Blue.”
Green is nice, probably a close second, but I'll always prefer its parent. The feature I admire most about myself has always been my eyes - I see the world through a tinted blue lens. I cherish how they are insusceptible to the criticisms I hurl at my reflection, untouched by the insults I mutter about myself.
They’ll maintain that same sky hue from the moment I drew my first breath to the moment I draw my last. Born from the eyes of my parents, and theirs before them, a sea of blue flowing through our family tree, binding us together like glue.
Through my eyes, claimed by blue, I search for waters and skies composed of its view. Raised to cherish the outdoors, I spent every childhood summer with one rule: to be in the direct vicinity of a body of water. I've spent every summer since plotting my return to some sort of shimmering aqua.
I love the way my body dissolves and surrenders as I float on my back… the way it envelops my senses, demanding every thought I own at that moment… the way it teases sunlight, dances with raindrops, surrenders to winter’s chill, and is effortlessly charmed by gusts of wind.
Every time we meet, I must flatten my feet upon its surface, run my hand along its wake, play with the droplets that linger on my skin, and rinse my hair of the deep blue's residue. The setting for every perfect day, the backdrop for every daydream, light blue skies juxtaposed against clouds I study like inkblots.
This sky and water have always held command. Meeting at horizons to debrief destructions and forge new wonders, both blanketing the earth and veiling confidences, accountable for all faith, laying the groundwork for life's riddles.
What lies beyond the atmosphere's ceiling remains mostly unknown, yet we tirelessly seek more blue out there too. The only breaths truly capable of reaching the depths of my lungs are those confronted by the sight of a lake or ocean because, in those fleeting moments, I am incapable of fathoming a single issue. I feel small.
This is the same water once held captive by the Ice Age, here since the beginning of time on Earth. These flowing landscapes offer sanctuary for all the life we have yet to discover, playing nice for photographs and reflections on tranquil nights while concealing its power, capable of both benevolent nurture and ruthless destruction…playing chess with the earth's inhabitants.
Water unites life through its necessity, yet in its absence and bursts of fury, claims many more. Every day, this bipolar display of blue remains true.
I've wrestled with emotions and experiences painted in that hue. To experience sadness, and wobbly lips… melancholy and hopelessness… a void and self-inflicted heartache, is to feel blue.
Blue can be felt, used, seen, and heard simultaneously. I've spent days, months, and years hungry for any other tone, desperately clutching at fleeting shades, like stolen paint chips from the hardware store, in a battlefield, fantasizing about the day the feeling of blue could be defeated with the two curt words "fuck you."
At my core, I aspire to embody blue and its intrinsic value. A primary colour, forming the foundation for countless others; reliant and unquestioned, unifying, and unrivalled. Open spaces and freedom, imagination and inspiration, sensitivity, trust, wisdom, confidence, and intelligence—all that blue represents, I crave to be recognized as when asked, "Who are you?"
In the corner of my room rests a guitar, with wood stained blue; a graceful presence that goes untouched, posing as a mere display. Shallowly, as I want people to think I can play. I have always placed those who can on a pedestal, wanting to appear as they do… poetic and skilled, creative, effortless, and seductive.
That guitar is my guru.
Denim has been the reason for some important breakthroughs. Jeans used to distill my existence, dictate my meals, and leave me in puddles. They made me feel as though my self-worth hinged on the number printed on the waist’s tag. That was stupid.
My closet now homes a spectrum of light and dark washes, chosen to fit me, and not for me to fit them. A lesson imparted by denim's blue, a small and unproductive mindset I luckily outgrew.
While I may occasionally reach for green, my answer stays tattooed on my tongue when asked that stale, worn-out question, because my deep tenderness for this colour will never undo.
I come from blue and hope one day to return to it too.
