Red is such a vibrant color. I do not know anyone who would discount the beauty of red in all of its effervescence; even if it is the only color that one knows how to paint in, then I should feel that they know how to paint in confidence. Red is, to me, the audacity of life in color - it is the sigh shared between two lovers as they meet in the night, the color of hair when caught in the firelight, and the color of the very blood inside each and every one of us.
Red is the first, the chief of colors, borne of fire and blood; of victory and death, of passion and despair and betrayal. I would paint in red if I could convey all of these at once and more, but I am overcome with the softness of its hues as well; of pinks and scarlets, of burgundy that stains lips with wine.
Red is a noble color and a common one at once, the clashing of where worlds collide in the hearths of taverns and the metallic taste of war. Red is the sundering of nations and the unions forged in flame, and it is all at once the color I love and despise the most. The man that dresses in red is to be respected but never loved, for they enjoy the way that misery tastes upon their tongue.