Pink — A Short Prose
In partial fulfillment of Film 151, Scriptwriting.
Originally submitted to Professor Giancarlo Abrahan.
Pink is a fuzzy, cozy feeling. If the midday heat were a blistering red, pink would be a warm hand to hold, or the breath of a loved one on a cold day. It’s in the soft cheeks of a blushing baby, the warmth of a familiar embrace, or the wet kisses of a dog that’s happy to see you. It can even be found in the seductive comfort of your bed when you’re trying to get up in the morning.
Pink is a comforting sound. It’s heard in the satisfied purrs of a restless kitten, or in the cooing of songbirds in the wee hours of the morning. Pink is in the utterance of your name when spoken tenderly by a loved one. It’s in a young voice’s first declaration of love, and in an old voice’s thousandth.
Pink is carried by a seaside breeze, radiating out of the setting sun with its kin: red, yellow, and orange. With the leaves swaying in the key of green, or with the turquoise crests of lapping waves, a warm and resonant pink is in harmony with the orchestra of hues.
Pink is a flavor locked in time. It’s in the brightness of ripe-to-burst strawberries, and in the richness of fresh milk. It’s found in the most expensive perfumes and the most exotic bouquets, but even a mundane flower picked from your garden carries the same scent of pink. Wherever it may come from, the flavor of pink never lasts, though yearning only grows in its absence. Pink is a nostalgic taste.
Yet Pink is also an artificial, opaque sensation. In the static cling of plastic bags, the polished slickness of fake fruits, or the disquieting roughness of cheap polyester, the feeling of a sickly, hot pink persists, tailor made for your consumption.
Pink is a manufactured sound. It’s heard in peppy commercial jingles, the latest pop hits, or in the empty words of fair-weather friends. A din of ungainly, bright pink dominates the soundscape of the modern world, inundated with lies and hollow promises.
Pink is a suffocating flavor. A repulsive, chemical pink wanders through fast food restaurants, chemical plants, and the cleaning aisles of grocery stores. It creeps out of bottles of bleach and detergent, burning its way into your lungs like pollution. It’s in the fizz of soda pop, the slickness of grease, or in brightly colored candy sold to children, a pink of empty calories and stomachs filled to burst. It’s a persistent flavor that doesn’t seem to dull with time, sticking to the walls and taste buds like a disease.
In truth, pink is a kaleidoscope of experiences, capturing your senses in unlikely ways, yet unmistakably pink nonetheless.