When the excruciating pressures of life compact her into a plain mold of simply going through the motions, she turns on her old rickety car and steps on the gas. She speeds and presses harder and more firmly accelerating the vehicle until the stress whisps away into the colors of the sunset. 

Sunsets have transformed her, morphing her true colors—over saturating the life she is attempting to live. 

When the sky transforms into a cotton candy pink, her mind lives vividly in the summer regardless of the current season. Prancing through sunflower fields in flowy white dresses—knotted hair running wild. Feet digging deep into the sand of nearby beaches–her eternal home. Dunking her long blonde hair under the white caps of Lake Michigan, and front flips off the Grand Haven pier consume her days.

A burnt orange tan covers her face like a mask, and subtle brown freckles dot her chipmunk cheeks like the stars in the mid-summer sky. She explores and appreciates herself most in this vibrant color. Cotton candy pink makes her feel alive, satisfied, it gives her meaning. 

A meaning that dims as Sedona orange replaces the youthfulness of her August gleam. “Good Days” by SZA blasts through the crippling Bluetooth speakers in her car. She comforts herself with gray sweatpants and Starbucks pink drinks—light ice, no scooped strawberries. Pumpkins rest on each porch her car whips past and the brain within that beautiful head of hers discontinues its thinking. 

Anger builds up in her body. Orange brings out the fire in her, the fight and urge for every waking moment to be restless and a new adventure. Not the predetermined life the world has designed for her within a classroom of children she cannot stand. Sedona orange is her flame and challenge; it’s her war.

Within the next few months peace is returned in periwinkle. Serenity; resting her car, beaming “Japan” by Yot Club, eyes set on each plane leaving the airport viewing area. Airplanes that receive the pleasure of traveling to a new destination day after day. A new excursion, the adventure that orange puts in her bloodstream is diminished and blanked by the icy temperature imputed by the new season at hand. However, as her car runs and the gas tank falls empty, her fight flees. 

Periwinkle means surrendering. Not only to herself, the wishes, and dreams she contemplates in that mysterious brain of hers, but also the drive-in her bones to create a new future and deviate from a generalized path. Periwinkle is her constant reality, her call back to earth. 

But we all need an escape from a temporary constant. Canary yellow; she returns. Like an iced glass of lemonade, her true self reappears in a form that is sour, astringent, and has a touch of sweetness. 

The lyrics of “Striptease” by Carwash float in and out of the body of her vehicle as she races around the backcountry roads, windows down, not a singular watch over time. Concealed creeks become her happy place, braiding cattails and crafting rock houses, her shine returns. Canary yellow is a rebirth, her joy, like a patch of daisies on a rainy spring day—she becomes replenished. 

Each season’s color pallet is ingrained in her memory. They make up who she is. Polaroids of each individual sunset scatter the picture frames within her room so she can remember who she becomes with each passing of time.

The time that she generally dismisses on her great adventures provides the colors that paint the pictures of her life.