Hunger is the gray of thin planks of wood piled on the back porch. Hunger is clean. No sharp edges or whiskery splinters. It is a clean, centered ache that takes up a finite volume of space. Bigger than a jar of peanut butter. Smaller than an inner tube. Hunger is a tarnished tea service packed below my ribs. Hunger starts out bright and shiny and dulls into the colors of a faded oil slick. Hunger has thin handles. Lids that rattle and bellies that swell.
White is bright and draws your eyes. Blues does not, and red is worthless. Those colors repel your eyes. They are too dense. White is not. It pulls at your eyes. It is the color of Jesus’ robes, and all of the children and lepers and widows fell at his hems. I’ve never bought into it. He was crucified. That blows. Lots of things suck, like the murders, rapes, and a million other awful things that are happening right now at this minute. Lots of people lead shitty lives, and they aren’t all heralded the way Jesus is. I don’t get it and don’t think I ever will.