Once upon a time, I moved into a red dining room. There was an apartment surrounding it, but it was impossible to focus beyond the blood red. Gross red. Please don’t turn on the lights, you’ll only make it worse red.
Previous landlords were swift to restrict any personalization efforts. This was the first place I could make my own. It was numbing. I convinced myself the wall color needed to tell the world exactly who I was. Logical. What if I picked the wrong color? I would be anchorless. There would be judgement and mocking, I was certain. Paint strips littered the walls, making the red even angrier, blazing through what little openings I allowed. It was intense and I was riddled with headaches, frozen with fear and indecision.
And then, just as I ran out of ibuprofen, it appeared: Sherwin Williams #6130, “Mannered Gold“. It was the color, my color.
It was warm, it was cool. It was neutral, but it wasn’t. It was bland on its own, interesting against something brighter. Dear god, if ever I were melted into wax, this would be my Crayola-self. It was me.