Bookmark #86

For a long while I can’t put a strict number on, I embraced grey. You could find grey in all I did and all I had. The colour, or the logical lack of it, dominated everything that went on in my life.

There was grey on the clothes I wore, and the shoes I kicked, and the bag I put my stuff in and yet, it did not stop there. For you know, grey was in my decisions and my experiences.

I made choices—ambiguous ones. I did things that did not fit well on either side. That was the worse kind of grey for someone who views life in binary, but I was stuck. You see, I was walking a fine line.

In everything I did, I walked the line. A misstep here and I’d get splashed in overwhelming colour; a slip there and I’d be covered in the nothingness of black. The line, however, was always coloured grey. The line started to feel like home.

On a random evening some weeks ago, I pulled open my closet door, and I ignored the stack of grey t-shirts sitting in the corner waiting for me to pick one of them up. Without thinking, I wore the most colourful of all my clothes that day; I wore maroon.

I met you that evening, and since then, grey doesn’t feel so attractive anymore, and since then, colour doesn’t feel so overwhelming anymore.

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