Portrait of a color

I feel betrayed. I feel completely cheated on. I could have had a beautiful orange, a sincere one, a honest orange, who shows herself as she is, who takes herself for what she is...and instead, I have a terrible colour. An in-between, a colour that doesn't call a name. A colour that is not my wonderful, frank orange, who overwhelms you, grabs you and swallows you up with dear pleasure. A colour who doesn't eat you, doesn't call you out, who doesn't get under your skin, who doesn't even yell at you. A colour whom you don't shout at, but next to whom you don't even want to sit for feeling nothing. I betray myself everytime I even catch myself liking this horrible colour I painted. When I was painting him, I seemed calm and in a contemplative state and thus I was not angry at all. I could look at him, build him, and dive in him. The colour had a gesture, and he was finally giving me something. And that, in retrospect, I hated. He robbed me. It made me believe for a minute that such a colour could be loved. But he's horrible! It's so close to my beloved orange, but it's a lesser version, horrible, terrible, scowling, and earthy, lying! A sneaky colour who doesn't say his colour outright. He slips into the gap between two worlds of three other colours. And now we don't know nothing! What if what I like is honesty? Maybe I was finally dreaming of an object I could describe. A colour is not too complicated, you know. You never see the same one from one person to another, but they have a name, don’t they? It's yellow. It’s blue. There's an entity, with contours that fall around, that you can put down, to talk about them, to criticise them, to debate them, to corrupt them maybe, to call them their father maybe, but them have an identity that you can bid on, add to, decline, that you can grasp. The most shitty colour who deserves all my slander is a shitty colour that no one cares about. He can't even be described as bland when he gives you no pleasure. Fucking shit, even in his mediocrity, he takes no position! It has no substance, it has no guts, it doesn't take you in and even in the idea of uninteresting, you wouldn't want to talk about him! It's not flat, not a surface either, but it's not deep. He doesn't have the shoulders to carry within him a space where the complex impulses and passions that human nature carries struggle. We can't conspire with it, nor against it, because it doesn't interest us enough, nor can we project, inject our fantasies into him. It's so terrible. We don't want to sit down and play, have fun. It's just hard to handle because he doesn't excite me.