My Color Wheel Has Stopped Spinning
My Color Wheel Has Stopped Spinning
By Abby Cope
Recently, I have noticed that I’ve worn black considerably more than any other color. Even as I write this, make no mistake: I have made no exceptions. This not-so-coincidental coordination has taken over my life with the fervency and malice of forethought. When looking back at pictures of myself, there is a noticeable trait, or tint, rather, shared in every last one of them: the color of my clothes. No matter if it is gameday, the bar with my friends, going to class, or going on a run, it does not seem to matter to me. All occurrences have made it painstakingly clear that my somber ensemble has become a constant in my closet.
As someone whose wardrobe was once described as colorful, it seemed dually ironic yet imminent that I would one day fall into the bleak abyss that is the absence of color entirely. Hangers lining racks that were once filled with rainbow hues in shades bold and bright are now coated in a dark, dismal reminder of the losses that I’m mourning. They may not be tangible, but they still cut just as deep. A friend made a joke in passing that I had enough black clothing she’d almost suspected I’d been attending a funeral every weekend. Though I’ve yet to attend a funeral in this ominously outfitted stage of my life, I keep circling back to the question of why I continue to dress like I am about to. I have run through the excuses that black is “slimming” or “warmer for winter”, but none seem to be true. I have come to terms with the fact that there is some sort of inner inconsolability that I have projected into my apparel instead of addressing it.
Collegiality is crucial to one’s growth but entails more personal paradoxes to come than what is advertised during Freshman orientation. Maybe I am still mourning the loss of a friendship, one that was the first I had made at college. A feeling like ripping a run straight through the pink tights you used to wear every day. Perhaps it is the loss of a relationship. The adjustment of going from best friends to absolute strangers is harder to make than thought, like finally outgrowing your most-worn purple sweater. A feeling so instinctive, something that brings such comfort, until it does not fit like it used to. Or perhaps it is the loss of the innocent girl filled with hope as she drove into Tuscaloosa for the first time. Once looking out the window filled with hope and light, now darkened by dismal reminders of harsh realities, like your old favorite gold dress once and for all losing your lust. It is no wonder I have become such an anti-colorant and quite conservative with my color palette. When searching online, “Why is black worn at funerals?”, the first and most prominent answer amongst the over 100 million instantaneous results is that the color symbolizes respect for what was lost. It is a Catch-22, and I’m caught in the crossfire: if I feel as though I have lost a part of myself, how am I to show respect for a girl who never once showed any ounce of it for herself? Why am I mourning a girl that I no longer miss? Maybe I miss parts of her, such as her naiveté towards meeting boys or the pure longing for learning and lack of burnout. But in her entirety, she is gone, preserved only in Snapchat memories from times habitually self-suppressed. And for one reason or another, my uniform has become ubiquitously forlorn. And though I am finding increasing comfort in blending into the background of everyday life, I keep thinking back on the absence that the presence of black can bring.
black is the absence of color narrowly escaping all of life’s light
in dark corners and bleak burrows
it hides, lurks around the corner waiting for the sun to set
to steal all light from the sky coating the earth in a melancholy moonlight
to feel as much sorrow
as the color itself evokes
representative of so much remorse and regret
black is the absence of so much more than just color
but the presence of pain,
suffering
and the loss of light that once illuminated this now obsidian oblivion.
I continue to coat myself in such cold colors, yet constantly long for the life and vitality that come with the brilliance of the back half of the rainbow that I have grown to instinctively ignore. This juxtaposition I have put myself in is one that sometimes feels too dark to see a way out of. The color black might be the absence of color, however, I am trying to shift my mindset into seeing it as the opportunity for light. The opportunity to bring in the warmth of the sun I have shielded myself from for so long. The opportunity to leave the end of the color spectrum that mourns the loss of all color for the one that embraces all colors in their entirety. The opportunity to infuse a “black and white” mindset with color. I want to embrace the vibrancy of life again, to stop and not only smell the roses but see all their well-earned petals in the high esteem they deserve. To recognize them for their unrelenting reminder of the symmetry struck between growth and gratitude, and what beauty can come from it. Being so caught up in my inner commotion has caused me to lose all passion and pigmentation. Expanding my color palette to add a wider range of shades, to start painting my life with pride. Bring back the blues, ones far better than those that accompany Mondays. Ones that remind me of the twinkle in my Mom’s vibrant eyes when I make her proud. Bring back the yellows, ones that match the sundresses I loved to wear, and the Coldplay song I loved to sing in high school. Find the pinks and reds again, that makes me think of all the love in my life I am oh-so lucky to have and hold close. I want the streaks of color I leave behind me in this life to be vivid, bold, bursting with vitality from the seams. Blending into the background is the furthest thing from what I hope to do, so why would I start doing so now?
Maybe the next time I look in my closet, I will grab a skirt. A green one resembling the large Magnolia tree leaves outside my window. A sweater, an orange one like the sign above my best friend’s front door at their house. And a new outlook, a new attitude to wear along with them. My grandmother used to say, “The world may be dark when the weather gets bad, but even rainbows get dressed up to go out after the storm.” A gentle and genteel reminder that storms will pass, and my color wheel will slowly start to spin again.
