i have a secret to tell you. the color orange makes me feel something. i started loving it when i was still a child, long before i understood anything about the psychology of color. now that i do, it almost feels like my younger self already knew. like my heart understood something my mind would only learn much later.

i’ve been trying to write a book, but lately, the words have refused to come. so i went to a museum instead. i told myself it was to learn, to observe, to take photos, to appreciate art and the people who dedicate their lives to it. but it became something else entirely. something more intimate. more confronting.

the museum held pieces donated by artists, some of whom started as students and are now known, recognized, remembered. standing there, looking closely at the figures, the strokes, the choices of color, i couldn’t stop wondering what was happening in their minds when they made them. what kind of feeling pushes a person to create something that will outlive a moment, maybe even themselves.

and then the thought turned, quietly, toward me.

does anyone ever look at me that way?
not just see me, but study me. try to understand what i represent. what i’ve been through. what i am trying to say without saying it.

something in that space stirred something in me. it was both comfort and discomfort at once. like something loosening, something breaking open. i let myself look, and think, and feel without trying to control the meaning. i realized that even if my interpretation of a piece was different from someone else’s, it didn’t make it wrong. it just made it mine.

maybe that’s what makes us human.
that the same image can be shallow to one person and profound to another. that the way i see things, shaped by where i came from and what i’ve endured, will never be identical to someone who has lived differently.

and still, both are real.

it made me understand something i’ve struggled to accept. that understanding something doesn’t mean you get to hold it.

when i walked out, i carried that weight with me. and suddenly, the world felt like a larger museum. everyone an artist in their own way. everyone moving through their lives, creating something that is, depending on who’s looking, either beautiful or ugly. both true. both allowed.

then the sun began to set.

people stopped to watch it, some rushing to capture it before it disappeared. the sky shifted slowly into that familiar hue, something between light and darkness. orange. naranja. it felt like i was still inside the museum, except this time the painting was alive, moving, changing in front of me.

it made me think that every creation is a record of who we are in a specific moment. a quiet documentation of where we stand. and that we are never meant to stay there. even endings, especially endings, can be beautiful.

for the longest time, i didn’t understand why i was drawn to orange. but now i think i do. it feels like balance. it isn’t as overwhelming as red, and it isn’t as gentle as yellow. it exists in between. like a goodbye that still carries love. like a quiet kind of courage. the kind that allows you to feel things fully and still let them go.

because the truth is, we can’t really hold anything.

there are moments of happiness, and there are moments of ending. but even in endings, there is something waiting. something we cannot see yet. when you feel sadness, maybe it is enough to remember that you were once happy, and that you will be again.

maybe loving orange was never just about the color.

maybe it was about learning how to live like it. with warmth, with softness, with hope.

endings, after all, are meant to be felt slowly.