I hate the color green.

It represents new beginnings and joy; it mocks my failures. Yet, somehow, it manages to obtrude every aspect of my life. The color is inescapable.

In spring, when the fresh scents of flowers and the sweet songs of birds once again fill the air, green life begins to emerge above the desolate ground; buds begin to overshadow trees' bare limbs. People are hit with "spring fever," and their gloomy, winter depression gives way to joy and anticipation. The season of celebration beckons all to take part, to put away their problems and to enjoy the thrill of the moment. It says to us, "Your problems are nothing. Forget about them. Don't you see the beauty? Don't you see the splendor? Put aside your burdens; it is not the time for that anymore."

But maybe I don't want to.

What right does spring have to tell me to be happy? Letting go will not make my problems disappear. And so, I ignore spring. I ignore its invitations. And in return, it mocks me. It laughs at me with its lush, green grass, its budding trees and fragrant flowers. Green has everything that I do not. But I will not give in. I will never let it know how I long for more, how I secretly wish to join in. That desire alone infuriates me.

Not that it cares.

No matter what I do, any anger directed towards it is pointless. It refuses to retaliate. Balanced, harmonious, and peaceful – it neutralizes all red-hot anger. It will never join the fight.

And so, my misery is only heightened by this incessant sea of serenity, by its immunity to my animosity. It simply ignores me, turning its back and going about its business by making the world a better place.

How very noble of it.

Painting the world, bringing smiles and laughter, creating a world that is all so much happier than me is the last thing that I want to see. But this is green - artistic and creative. Its paintbrush touches every little piece of this world, laying claim to the natural beauty that surrounds us. The Janus even use it to represent their artistic nature. It adorns their coat of arms, symbolizing the beauty that they desire to bestow upon the world. It is no wonder I cannot stand the color.

It drives me insane.

The only pleasure I have is the right to wallow in my own misery, but green ruins it - every single time. I am tired, frustrated, outraged that it won't leave me in peace. Everywhere that I go, it is there, getting to me, driving me positively mad.

And it refuses to be silenced.

It is demanding, requiring my complete attention. All too often, it is the one that acts as the authority figure, giving permission where it pleases. It is the one who controls traffic. While red is the one to put a halt to it, only green determines when it may once again continue on its way. Silently, it manipulates the world and refuses to be cast aside. It is the anonymous controller, and I am no exception to its authority.

My mind is its victim.

I am haunted by images of eyes – green, just as the color I hate – that I betrayed. These are the eyes that believed in me, trusted me, were devastated because of me. No – there were two pairs of green eyes. While one shed tears, the other expressed its pure hatred and disgust. Both eyes revealed uncertainty. Both eyes exposed utter terror. And both reminded me of the many wrong things that I had done. They dredged up the one thing I believed to have permanently rid myself of: my conscience.

This is the color that made me realize how wrong everything about my life was. It was the color that changed me, ripping my life apart, tearing it into a million little pieces, and scattering it to the wind. It opened my eyes to everything that I had become and refused to leave me that way. It revealed everything that it had to offer and showed me all that I had missed out on. And everything that had once seemed so extravagant and satisfying paled in comparison.

It left me green with envy.

This is the revised version of a spontaneous story I wrote eons ago. Not my best work, but coming up with the symbolism was fun.

And yes, this is a rant more so than it is an angst. [Ian's not the sort to be moaning and groaning about how unfair all of life is]