Brown

True love, like cookie dough malts or the caribbean blue of my cupboards is the passion. Brown used to be a color to hate. Who would paint their house brown? I didn't understand. Growing up in the desert where the sun beats down while you drowse, soaking up the color of dirt, it's everywhere. You step into some shade, the color green filtering the beating sun, the cool beneath your feet of prickly drought resistant grass, green was the color of my heart. Now it's brown. Here the green explodes at you from every side, a continual assault that never ever gives your eye rest. My house is brown. When I first moved here I wanted to paint it almost any other color, now, remarkably, I'm satisfied, no, pleased with its dun color.