When I was little, it use to amaze me how colors were made. In art class I would sit and mix paint because blue and red didn't stay the same when they fell in love. Every single color found its match and danced beautifully as I swirled them together. Black and white were my favorites. I'd pour the creamy paint into a bowl and watch as black and white swirls, turned into grey swirls and owned the container holding it captive. Grey was amazing to me. Because black and white are nothing alike, and grey is in the middle. Black is dark and scary and demanding. And white is graceful, and trusting, and clean. Grey is nothing. Grey is bland. And safe. Grey is careful. And I would do anything to be grey.
Friendship is black and turns to ash in my hands. It is dust, so hard to hold. I am keeping still so none escapes, but it feels like at any moment, the wind will kick up and steal it all away. Every move I make is monitored and judged. I am wary about my words and am second guessing everything. My friends are ash and seem hard to hold even with the cleanest hands. My friends are hiding things and playing with matches and telling me tales and I am sitting on the side, scrutinizing every word. They cannot be grey. Because nothing is grey. I am careful because they are worth my exhaustion, and the thoughts that go into keeping me sane. I am what feels like no shade at all. I am never on the fence. I am never anywhere. I am living where it's safest, I am choosing nothing and siding with no one. I stay the same. I stay where it feels, but cannot be
Being alone is white and is like snow ever falling on me. It is easy. And there is nothing to it. It's untouchable because flaws and imperfections slip away like dreams and whenever I screw up, I am my only witness. I can think my way out of disaster because being alone means I'm not alive to anyone but me. Alone feels like history. I can think of people everywhere who can only hear their own heartbeat, this very instant, sometimes always. But, like history, it's something I'm only aware of, never touching. I can think them into love and warmth and Christmas all I want, but as their minutes pass, loneliness keeps falling; white and cold, like a blanket of snow.
Love is grey. And no one will let me think so. But, I am unconvinced and letting weeks slip by without absence take over. Some people love and fall apart because breathing never seems quite as satisfying when no one is waiting for your chest to rise and fall. Some people dive in, head first, and lose themselves before they even knew exactly where to find them. Most people search forever, and feel black, and empty, until they see their first snow flake fall from heaven like an accident. And after that, life is white. Because if you could choose, whatever else would it be?
But, I don't love like that. I cannot swim and I can breathe all by myself. I am not guarded. But I like logic. I like the way it looks and feels beneath my bare feet. I don't see myself as capable of letting go, and falling in. I'll probably always think in reason. I may forever set up camp on the fence post. Where the temperature is just right, all year around. This way my feet stay grounded, and my head still gets a view. This way I feel safe, but I feel wanted. It seems in a world of black and whites, that simply doesn't happen. When you find happiness, you are almost always leaving logic in the dust, and skipping towards some silver lined image that turns into ash as you approach. Well, I'm not skipping. I am walking, maybe at a mosey. I am taking my time and thinking of the future and weighing my options and playing it safe and being realistic and doing a million things that one does not do when they fall in love. I do not want to fall.
Love is grey. Everything on this planet is black and white. Nothing, ever, in any case, never is any shade different. There are things that are, and will always be awful, and tainted, and terrible and inevitable. And those things do not change. While far in the distance beauty, and perfection, and ecstasy remain unharmed by shadows. These things never touch. They never mix like paint to make a reality with survivable ups and downs. They never make love and make greyness. They never create for you a happy medium.
Unless it's love. Love is grey. Love is dark and light and black and white and holds everything awful and everything beautiful in it's hands. Nothing, ever, is everywhere all at once. Nothing is both colors, in harmony, at last. Nothing is ever black and white. Nothing is ever a perfect shade of grey. Nothing but love.