The glassy clear water does not know. But it will soon no longer be so pure. My brush is running out of time. I must finish the stroke of color. The task of keeping the color alive is difficult. The color once as vivid as the sun, is now of an older paper. The fading of yellow. The color once as rich as the most palatable grape, is now of a sickly bellflower. The fading of purple. The color once as alive as the fish in the pond, is now of a dwindling flame. The fading of orange. The color once as striking as the sky, is now of a mountain with no wanders upon it. The fading of blue. The color once as atrocious as the fresh blood from a crying girls arms, is now the discolored water she lay in. The fading of red. The colors start as beautiful possibilities. Yet we always dip our brushes back in the pure water to redeem our admired colors. The fading of colors is the not the fading of excitement. It is the fading of accustomed standards. The sun wanted change of scenery. The grape longed to be big. The fish desired to view others. The sky aspired to change with the sun. The girl begged for relief, she begged for the standards the fade. The fading of colors.