colour

The perpetrator is a person. He__ got blood flowing in his or her veins. Does it matter if he or she is Black or White? What does it count if the perpetrator is Christian, Muslim, Jew, Buddhist or what have you? Does the person__ sexuality matter? Does it matter if the villain is Conservative or Lib Dem?

If there__ one shade a woman of colour can__ wear it__ got to be the one everyone expects, hasn__ it?

Conversely, the red plant itself burns a brighter red when set off by the green than when it grows among its peers. In the bed I always reserved for poinsettia seedlings, there was little to distinguish one plant from its neighbours. My poinsettia did not turn scarlet until I planted it in new surroundings. Colour is not something one has, colour is bestowed on one by others.

Human colour is the colour I'm truly interested in, the colour of your humanity. May the size of your heart and the depth of your soul be your currency. welcome aboard my Good Ship. Let us sail to the colourful island of misex identity. You can eat from the cooking pot of mixed culture and bathe in the cool shade of being mixed-race. There is no need for a passport. There are no borders. We are all citizens of the world. Whatever shade you are, bring your light, bring your colour, bring your music and your books, your stories and your histories, and climb aboad. United as a people we are a million majestic colours, together we are a glorious stained-glass window. We are building a cathedral of otherness, brick by brick and book by book. Raise your glass of rum, let's toast to the minorities who are the majority. There's no stopping time, nor the blurring of lines or the blending of shades. With a spirit of hope I leave you now. I drink to our sameness and to our unique differences. This is the twenty-first century and we share this, we live here, in the future. It is a beautiful morning, it is first light on the time of being other, so get out from that shade and feel the warmth of being outside.You tick: Other.

His eyes were that colour you can't see in the rainbow. Indigo.

Love is like dried flowers sometimes. Even though you watch the petals shrink and change colour, you cannot help treasuring them

Wear red and just be silent, don__ even whisper by yourself; you will see that you will be heard easily because red always speaks on behalf of you! By wearing red, you give your tongue and voice to red colour!

Red is such an interesting color to correlate with emotion, because it__ on both ends of the spectrum. On one end you have happiness, falling in love, infatuation with someone, passion, all that. On the other end, you__e got obsession, jealousy, danger, fear, anger and frustration. All those emotions _ spanning from intense love, intense frustration, jealousy, confusion, all of that _ in my mind, all those emotions are red. You know, there__ nothing in between. There__ nothing beige about any of those feelings, it all comes back to me, and it__ red.

Yellow is the colour of the sun.Blue is the colour of the sky.Green is the colour of grass.Brown is the colour of your eyes.Black is the colour of the night.Orange is the colour of truth.Red is the colour of love.And...Rainbow is the colour of you.

When we think of love,we always think of red,but when I think of love,I think of you instead.

Black Is The Most Beautiful colour because it does not reflect it absorbs all into itself.

Imagine the world as a crayon box, and it took every colour to draw each of us. Adding a shade lighter and darker with each interaction. None would be black or white, either purely absorbing all, or reflecting each. #ColourMeSpotless

Mumbai is the sweet, sweaty smell of hope, which is the opposite of hate; and it's the sour, stifled smell of greed, which is the opposite of love. It's the smell of Gods, demons, empires, and civilizations in resurrection and decay. Its the blue skin-smell of the sea, no matter where you are in the island city, and the blood metal smell of machines. It smells of the stir and sleep and the waste of sixty million animals, more than half of them humans and rats. It smells of heartbreak, and the struggle to live, and of the crucial failures and love that produces courage. It smells of ten thousand restaurants, five thousand temples, shrines, churches and mosques, and of hunderd bazaar devoted exclusively to perfume, spices, incense, and freshly cut flowers. That smell, above all things - is that what welcomes me and tells me that I have come home. Then there were people. Assamese, Jats, and Punjabis; people from Rajasthan, Bengal, and Tamil Nadu; from Pushkar, Cochin, and Konark; warrior caste, Brahmin, and untouchable; Hindi, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, Jain, Parsee, Animist; fair skin and dark, green eyes and golden brown and black; every different face and form of that extravagant variety, that incoparable beauty, India.

The hardest part of being a Canadian kid is having to color in Nunavut with a crayon in school, hell on earth.

It was if, in the process of its long and arduous journey from Afghanistan's mines to Europe's canvases, and its painful evolution from barren beginnings, ultramarine had collected and purified all the wisdom of the different worlds it traversed, retaining only what was common to then, and what was most important. This pure, clean color evokes undulating infinity, that delicate moment between day and night, an image of man constantly drifting between existence and non-existence.

Writing is like painting. You sketch it, add colour, add depth and detail. You give it a final layer and then hang it proudly.

If ever you want a rainbow in your home, go to Sandwich Glass Museum, and let them put one in your heart too.

There wouldn't be life without colour.