Orange, what a colour it is, vibrant enough to draw blood to my skin if I were to wear it, although I always saw it as a happy yellow under the shade of brown. Nevertheless, i do not actually care for colour, or for anything in itself for the matter. Dark it may seem but what good is it caring for the existence of anything? Is it not the fact that I experience and observe that makes me care? The dead man does not think or care for anything, those that are yet to be born wouldn’t ever find the profundity of the colour orange on an autumn eve. It is precisely the fact that I get to see, know, hear, and feel it that matters. This exactly is why I am writing this letter to you, not because it benefits me, but because doing is the privilege of the able and I did not choose to be able. So I am using my blessing to extend my curiosity to you, do you care for the colour orange? If you say you do then I urge you to change, and change is the behaviour of the living. To remain in the abyss at the mercy of ignorance is to indulge in the attraction of the devil’s toys. No one here cares for orange, you merely mutter that it is of importance because you have not learnt how to think and thus are not living.
I understand that this letter can be confusing, but it is exactly that which affirms why orange is of no matter to you, to us. If the colour mattered in itself then you would care for it like your mother. This concoction of confusion and abstract thought is a wise man’s drink, so here’s to hoping it has quenched your thirst. In your new hydration, think… why didn’t I ever notice the orange in the room?
Sincerely I write,