Be the yellow of every sunny dream, the yellow of the fruits of a strong sun. Show me that hue that sings of tomorrow and of a strength that learns from both victory and failure, treating them just the same. Be that golden hue that comes forth from nature, of sweet petals and garden galas. Just be. Be beautiful.
It was the sort of yellow that glows from a homely hearth, the sort that warms you just to see it, even before the steady flame can bring a glow to your skin.
It was the yellow of every newborn petal, of the colour that loves the sun so much it radiates its warmth even in the dawn.
Her dress was the yellow of a thousand warm suns, the promise of light that gives energy to nature. It was the colour of childhood happiness and the brightest of spring flowers, and as I hugged her close I could feel that was her too, that energy and warmth.
Once the rope had been canary yellow, not softly romantic, but instead a nineteen eighties angry neon. Either it was new a long time ago or it had been used for the dirtiest tasks imaginable. The outside was a sickly greenish brown, the only hits of the original colour shining through like poorly cleaned up glitter.
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