Color Aire

The skin of Heaven cannot be a lie, for Heaven keeps what is true, and I will keep you in that truth — for a moment, or forever, when the time of love arrives.

For what I chase, and what I am willing to change for, is love. Not the hollow reflection of loving myself, but the living breath of another soul. You are the color of air, the likeness of Heaven held only for a moment, or held because Heaven chose you.

And you can bet your skin on this: what is different cannot be hated when it loves the light within its own skin, or the darkness that reflects that Aura, or the violet reverberation that resembles the color purple glowing outward.

When you look for Her skin color, it intoxicates you more. When you look at the generations of Her, you see how love could be pulled from every race, every shade, every reflection of the human canvas.

She is the color of Aire before the light reveals who you loved before returning to Earth. She is the memory of attraction before the body remembers its shape. She is the appearance you kept when the light was off, and the appearance you recognized when the light was on.

For the day is not ours if we choose to change it.

Those who bring Hell will kill the world for the light of their own case. They do not understand that light without truth becomes a blade.

I know this: no one will release their skin color. No one understands the reasons behind the offense. We do not know why we were shaped this way, but we know who we are today — and who we never expected to become.

Until we hate our own parents for the color of our skin, Heaven will remember the times before the changing of yesterday’s skin. Heaven will remember the first colors, the original canvas, the unbroken spectrum.

Not one of us can force another to hate themselves. Not one of us can make another kill themselves with the hate that was passed down.

For what was given was given from God — the same color of mistake, the same color of blessing, the same color of child born into the same shade as their parents.

We are created from the past, painted by ancestors of many colors, returning again on the canvas of the Fifth Season.

And in that Fifth Season, the ancestors return. They rise from the painted worlds, from the skins they once wore, from the colors they once carried. They return to remind us that every shade is sacred, every hue is history, every color is a soul.

This is the Fifth Season: the season of return, the season of remembrance, the season when the canvas breathes again.