Colours of my life? Procrastination, random thought-gathering, and a little more about me:

Red is easy. My favourite colour, my satin shirt, my formal dress that was verging on indecent and reinvented my 'squarer than thou' image in the last two days of high school. Red is the colour of me at my best.

Orange is the colour of the film group cards this year. I love and live by film group and is has given me an understanding and critical comprehension of movies that I find it difficult to imagine life without, now.

Yellow is the covers of the exam booklets given out by my faculties. It is my writing, whiplash fast, covering page after page, but somehow never as much as my neighbours. I never ask for additional booklets. I write the minimum. Sometimes this makes me feel inadequate. Usually not.

Green is the grass that I like to lie in. To sprawl in, limbs spread, watching the sky and the clouds and the world and feeling the sun on my face. It is decandence, time-wasting, the wonderful feeling of seconds dribbling through my hands with no actions weighing them down. This feeling has been all-too-lacking in recent months.

Blue are the bibs for netball that I look after. The team that I look after. We were called the Smurfs, previously; even more blue. We rarely win, but it's good for the effort, the play, the stretch of an arm and brush of fingers barely reaching the ball, but knocking it past the hands it was intended to reach. Elation high in the back of my throat.

Purple is for the bruises I get at random, knees and shins and arms and hips. Discolourations from the lightest of knocks, marks I don't even know the cause of, pretty adorning blobs that I poke in J² silliness, going: "It hurts. Ouch!"

Black is for dressing up. For lace and leather and fishnets and boots. For feeling pretty and relaxed and comfortable. For dancing, for letting go, for scaring and grinning and revelling. I like black.

White is paper, printed, plain, scattered across my room in reams of noted points and rough drafts. Clean and beautiful with an essay printed sparsely upon it, ready to be handed in. Torn-off days of a desk calendar with notes like: "Shadow Lord, Ahroun, Homid" and lists of names scrawled on the back.

And grey is life. In all its glorious, myriad uncertainties, in-betweens. In the lack of absolutes. In the way everything blurs together into a smear that has dullness and opalescence and lighter notes and everything all swirled together. The way it seems dull from far away, but it full of life and vigour up close.