Good memories, as you might call them, might exist at one of the corners in your sanguine brain. Sanguine brain only exists when you have positive thoughts. I could not ruminate upon positive events in my life. Every single event seems weakening to me. I categorized them into colors. Red, blue, purple, white, black - they are colors, wild deceptive colors, which make me happy for a while, but not forever. A sense of emasculation, they give me, indefinitely. Fine, black and white might be pungent to the eyes, and less deceptive, as they are direct in giving effects. Less confusing, if you will. How about the other colors? They might be the epitomes of exuberance, joy, and love, but are they really are? A color can be warm in your lovely eyes, but it can also be numbing in mine. Black might be your symbol of gloom but it also could be my symbol of elegance. Blue might be your ocean. Again, your ocean, not mine. Blue is my emotion, particularly dark blue. In exact words, dark blue is me. I can see myself as a reflection of dark blue. I am an element of darkness which is not dark enough to be black; still, an element of darkness, not the darkness itself. Colors and good memories are said to be related. Their relations might be conspicuous to everyone but me. To me, they are all fuzzy. Like fuzzy mazes set in levels, they seem to complicate my sight. They strike me in a perplexing way; a way that I will never fathom. Good memories, they could be bad sometimes.
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