Dancing on the Edge

I’d gladly live inside a box of paints if I could. Spend my days on a squishy sofa of phthalo turquoise and the nights curling up in the warm crevices of a sunset orange. Might sound a tad unrealistic, but then that’s what colours were born to do – make you delusional. It’s half their job description. And then there’s the good old pencil who can’t even be bothered to dress up and get noticed. Stark in her simplicity, don’t let that plain Jane facade fool you. Her core of lead holds just as endless a stream of shades and surprises as your most indulgent box of paints. Also a particular tinge of mystery that speaks only in grayscale. A language all those colors know nothing of. No wonder one keeps returning to the pencil, after all the wild shenanigans with the fanciest parade of colors.

After the foundational sketch, one meets that artistic fork in the road. “Shall we dance?” ask the colors eager to go berserk. “Let me lead?” urges the pencil all set to take over the scene with her gazillion shades of gray. This time I did what one often does when faced with two irresistible options – choose both. A policy that works with everything – from menu items to men. Choose one and you have a destination. Choose both and I’ll meet you dancing on the edge. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Not even inside that box of paints.