Green.

I may not be your beautiful, but I have achieved the conquest of living. As if walking wasn't an art, every step more symbolic than the last. I swear words are magical entities contrived to their word condition, letters of alchemy, all knowing alpha and beta of grammar and grammatics. Without the word, there is zero. The word, an utterance of sound is the avalanche of existence, purposely murmured at the other side of the universe, slowly expanding, slowly reaching our time in light-years.

You may not know my curves apart from any others but I can describe every star without watching the night sky and sing it's native song, each one of them, one by one by one. Space-time is curved and light will never be a straight line, unless everything vanishes and there is no mass, no matter, just photons with only potential, what they could had been.

The grass is greener on the other side, only depending on your pupil, your species and specially what you consider green to be. Green could be anything, an incoming truck in traffic, a giraffe that just discovered it's tongue, a whisper or just a plain color. Green could be 4, 8 or 983. You could be green if I loved you enough, I could be green if I wanted to be.