Lilac Heart, Green World
Why we crave softness but decorate ourselves in strength.
She said her favorite color was lilac, but everything around her was green.
Jacket. Plants in her living room. Throw blanket. Even the candle — the one that smells like rain — quietly burning on the shelf, slow and steady.
Green like moss after rain. Like growth. Like boundaries disguised as breathwork.
I pointed it out — gently.
Said something like, “Funny… you say lilac, but your whole place is green.”
She smiled, but didn’t say much.
Just looked at me — a little curious, a little caught.
So I added, “They complement each other, you know.”
Because they do.
They don’t clash.
They hum.
One holds. One softens.
Like strength making room for tenderness, not the other way around.
And now I’m sitting here with Egyptian Luvr on loop,
letting the beat thread through me like incense smoke,
writing this in the same shade of quiet curiosity —
not to expose her colors,
but because I like the ones I see.
Still wondering:
If lilac was the color she loved…
why didn’t she live in it?
—
Green doesn’t scream. It grounds.
It speaks in leaves and glances. In well-timed silence.
It’s the color of a person who’s learned to self-regulate so well, they almost forget they still feel.
Green says: I’ve healed.
But sometimes what it means is: I’ve hidden.
It’s the color of the emotionally fluent —
people who know the words, know the work,
and wear serenity like a second skin.
But green can be a filter. A soft no.
A way to seem open without bleeding.
A way to say I’m safe — but not I’m yours.
—
Lilac is different.
It’s what you want to believe in, even if you don’t trust it.
Soft but haunted.
The color of spring bruises and whispered first times.
A little romantic. A little ruined.
A little like your favorite song from a summer that never quite loved you back.
People who love lilac but don’t live in it —
they ache in secret.
They crave permission to be gentle.
To slow down.
To sob into someone’s collarbone without apologizing for the mess.
But they don’t buy lilac candles.
They buy green ones.
Because lilac feels like a risk.
Like wanting to be seen… and not flinching when someone actually looks.
—
We say we love soft things —
sunlight, daydreams, slow hands, kind voices —
but how often do we choose them?
How often do we decorate our lives with protection instead of pleasure?
Strength is louder. More praised.
It gets algorithms. Promotions. Applause.
But it also gets lonely.
Because softness doesn’t mean weakness.
It means trust. It means I’ve built something inside myself worth protecting — and I want to share it, not guard it forever.
But when you’ve bled before,
you start decorating in colors that hide the stains.
—
Every once in a while, someone sees it.
They notice the tension — the mismatch.
They say, “You strike me as someone who loves lilac.”
And your throat catches.
Because they’re not just complimenting your taste.
They’re calling out a part of you you forgot was still alive.
Being seen like that?
It’s dangerous. Erotic. Divine.
And if someone ever earns access to your lilac —
don’t let them track mud through it.
Not everyone knows how to hold that color.
—
What color is your world right now?
And what color is your heart?
Look around. Your home. Your feed. Your closet. Your silence.
Are you decorating for who you are —
or who you had to become to survive?
And more importantly:
Are you ready to live in the color you love?
// Scorpio Veil
You wear green like armor,
but you dream in lilac.
And someone, someday,
will know the difference.