I love colours. I love spelling the word as "colour" and not "color." It seems more beautiful, more appropriate.
I get heady with a fresh box of Crayola crayons. The waxy smell, the texture of the paper encasing the crayon, the smoothness, the sinfully delightful names of all the spellbinding colours...melon, salmon, silver, periwinkle, burnt orange, sepia, jungle green...and on and on.
The fun begins and never ends.
I fondly remember my favorite moment from Mr. Roger's Neighborhood. It was a segment on how a crayon is created. It started with a little girl coloring in a huge butterfly on a piece of paper. She reached for a orange crayon in which the tip was already a little worn. She held the orange crayon between her fingers and brought it close to her face. Her eyes concentrated on the crayon...and then the scene melted gorgeously into a crayon factory. The machines. The liquid wax in a dazzling array of shades. Endless quantities of wax which poured forth into little cylinders. The hardening of the wax into the shape of crayons. The paper being slapped onto each individual crayon. And the final swift movement of placing the newly-made crayons into boxes. Ready for a child or adult to open and play for hours upon hours. The scene faded back to the little girl and her orange crayon. Her eyes were still fixated on her tool of creativity. At long last, she colored in part of the butterfly's wings. Beautiful. And then she returned the crayon back into its box. For another day. For another butterfly. For when inspiration strikes again.
I wish I had that episode saved.