Chapter 1—The Color of Love
There is only one type of love, ladies and gentlemen. That type of love can come in many shapes and sizes—like most products you buy. Love comes from different places, in different colors, and may even be in a different way. But, it's still love. 883Please respect copyright.PENANAArNbYuidJm
Does that mean because the white horse is popular, everyone should buy the white horse? What if there's someone who likes the brown horse? What happens to that person? He/She is practically shunned because they didn't follow custom—because that person didn't pick the white horse. Love is much like that. Though, I may have given you a bad metaphor. Who gets in such a ruckus about horses? I don't even like the things. Anyway, I am here to reveal that person who picked the brown horse. I'm here to share their story. Because, maybe all along, the brown horse was better than the white one.
Every Monday morning after what happened, promptly at 6:31 a.m., Leo Blanchard would wake up and curse the world. He absolutely hated it. I mean, I never met a person who despised humanity as much as Leo Blanchard did. The boy didn't want to be with the people there. All wrapped up in a nutshell, he hated his life. That much was expected. Although, I knew Leo Blanchard at a time when he didn't hate the world as much. That was a time before Christopher Vermont. Leo worked at Starbucks, still unsure of college or to jump into a real job. It was his decision to make.883Please respect copyright.PENANAB4JfUdoJbR
He wanted neither.
Leo Blanchard wanted to write. He wanted to travel too. I'll give you a hint—883Please respect copyright.PENANAbv0iKZ22jv
Leo is the boy with the brown horse. 883Please respect copyright.PENANA8GrOvHpC91
He was unlike expectations and seemed to never follow them, yes. The boy struck me as the rebellious type. But, as time went on, I found him the exact opposite. He wasn't stubborn or foolish or most things you'd perceive rebels to be. He was merely curious. Leo wanted to explore—not to stand around waiting for death to arrive. He hated the world and its people. So, obviously, he refused to be like them. Leo learned he wanted to be a writer when he learned that he wanted to travel. He'd have to document all the things he would learn. He was sure there was bound to be at least one place in the world he liked.883Please respect copyright.PENANABsokzMeX38
There was only one thing Leo Blanchard wanted to really write about. That one thing was the color of love. Please don't say it's cheesy. That will just ruin it all, and I'll have to ask you to put this book back on the shelf for a more educated, understanding reader than yourself. But, if you wish to stay, open up your mind. Forget cheesy and lovey and all the discriminating titles that have been listed on beautiful things. Forget all of it. And think.883Please respect copyright.PENANA7nSyGWqdyB
What is the color of love? Red? Pink? Blue? Black? Beige? The color of love is not specific—as I said before. Love comes in many different colors. There is no possible way to tag love as only one.883Please respect copyright.PENANAWjhO3Ig3Cj
What is your color? What color would you have to describe your love? I'd pick maybe a green for neutral and calm or grey for forgotten. Anyway, this really isn't about me. It's about Leo. He had never written about the color of love. He was too scared to. Leo believed white was the color of love. He honestly had an explanation. Leo thought love starts out a white palette until someone fills it with color. And it really doesn't matter what color it turns out to be. But everything starts out white, including love. Leo never wrote about that because he was afraid someone would hate him for it. He was afraid of the one person who didn't have a color.