I grip the brown rope: I am dangling up in the sky. The top end of the rope extends into the light above, so high up it doesn’t even matter. The tail end is down below, flailing in the wind. To put it simply, brown is unfortunately my favourite colour.
I dangle effortlessly relatively high up in the sky. I see threads of many beautiful colours weave through the sky, but my favourite is just the brown one. Chestnut strings flay off the rope as I hold on, hesitant to climb higher - for I may lose sight of all the other colours of ropes. And I can’t bear to even look down on them. That's wrong. They are each “beautiful in their own way.”
Noone else likes the colour brown, so I say my favourite colour is pink. It compliments brown well. I hang still, afraid to climb higher lest they think I actually like the colour brown. That's weird. Someone on a pink rope climbs high, casting a shadow over the sky. I look up, then back down on my rope, turning a deep taupe shade in their shadow. I stay still, the wind whipping the ropes up and around, swirling and twirling so as to make the scratchy hemp fabric burn my skin as it catches. So as to catch my hair and rip a little, as the pink rope stays still under the pressure of the person up high on it. So as to burn me more.
Nowhere I look do I see the same serene shades of pecan and coffee that catalyse my love for brown. Others only know the unfortunately iconic off-ginger and mahogany hues that characterise brown. I know how pleasant its rich chocolate flavour is, so I don’t see the misconceptions, only how weird it is. Maybe I love that about it. That's weird.
I hope I’m the only one who’s favorite colour is brown. Afterall, I’m certainly not brown’s favourite. But maybe I can at least be significant in one way. But I wish more people appreciated brown. I wish they could see how it shines cognac and maroon on pleasant sunny days. But brown is ugly. But I’ll cry if it's anyone else’s favourite. But I don’t want anyone to know it's my favourite. So I climb no higher, hanging stiffly. But I don’t want to cry. That's weird. Tears come out of my eyes.
If I just stay here, the rope twists around my arm and catches the light so as to shine a burnt sienna - so as to almost look pink. If I can’t climb a brown rope because that's weird, maybe I can at least be on a pink rope. I’m not as high up as whomever is climbing the pink rope, but I’m still higher than a lot of others. Being this high up on a pink rope still gets me praise.
But I still see the pink rope shaking under the pressure of a high climber.
I don’t want to climb a brown rope. I don’t want brown to be my favourite colour. So I release myself. Just enough to fall and burn and rip and tear and hurt. I let go of my grip on the brown rope. Maybe I just wished it would pull me up a bit. Maybe I was sick and tired of loving brown with no return on investment. Maybe I just wanted to hurt. Maybe I didn’t really want to climb up high. Maybe I didn’t care.
I don’t care. I never cared. I lose it all. The rope snakes and whips and twists and turns. It escapes me and I don’t care. I’ll lose and let go of everything. I don’t care for dirty copper and robust russet shades. I can’t question any of what I say, lest I start to apologize. Afterall, brown is unfortunately my favourite colour. So I hate it because it's weird.
Brown will never love me as much as I love it, and no one will ever love me if I love brown. I would be up there too if only I had a pink rope. But mine is brown so I don’t care.
The rust rope traverses and swerves under my loose palm, shaving my skin and nails, caressing my bones; It's running and leaving and going and I’m never getting back. Noone will ever look at how high I go, but they’ll see me go down. If I can’t reach the top I can at least be at the bottom. They’ll understand then. It’s not that I can't reach the top, it's that I had a brown rope. I see the bottom of it all, the sky out of view, instead obscured by a coiling end of a rope. Against the cool colours of the monochrome stormy sky its tail end contrasts in warm and reassuring russets and sepias. So I grab a hold of it because it’s beautiful. At the bottom there is no one but me anyways. I’m finally the one and only. The one in a million, the only one to make it this far.
So I climb up because I like the look of my rope. It’s beautiful, so I take another swing upwards. I keep going because I like the colour brown. So I go again and go up higher. So I see more beautiful mocha and umber off-shoots. Tendrils of serene walnut and pecan beckon a taut grip of my taupe rope. I see how syrups freckle and shine auburn in the morning sun: swaying endearingly from side to side to side to side.
I see a sky full of every colour, taking my brown rope up higher to see more. I focus on that ochre centre as my peripherals fill with rich red embers from the burning taupe in the rising sun. I climb through rope burn because to put it simply, I just can’t take my eyes off my rope. Because brown is my favourite colour. So I climb higher. I climb because I love brown. So I love brown because I can climb it. I look down on other colours, because I look up to their pastel, desaturated heights, metamorphosing under the light of a new dawn. I see every hue to go and come and every light to bask in.
Up this high, it all of a sudden isn't of note I climbed a brown rope. All of a sudden, I merely climbed the sky. All of a sudden, they who fell down the pink rope slipped on a cloud. But I keep climbing because I see the colour brown, swaying as it glows umber and ochre, burnt and saturated in the sun's warmth so as to beckon me forward. So as to bring me higher. I climb and climb, because I love brown in its seared cognac tips and it's deep mocha centre.
I hope more people see this beautiful colour when they look up. So I climb it some more. I hope brown knows it's my favourite. So I climb it some more. I hope it knows how beautiful it is. So I climb it some more. I hope I never let go of it again. So I climb it some more. I wish I never let go. So I won't stop climbing.