The feeling of being the gray one, silently diminishing within yourself ,of lurking amongst your sorrowful thoughts,confined to the prison of your being alone, what is this feeling called? A strange branch of loneliness so isolated from human yet so humane, so soft. Yet so killing. The feeling of being gray, of not being definite, out right, bold, of not being enough for oneself.
//Everything is gray his hair his smoke his dreams and hes so devoid of color he dont know what it means//
Like light passing through a glass prism bursts into seven colours of beauty but you just burst into tears and all of them are a monotone shade of gray. Which you or people turn into perverted jokes on useless books so that you dont have to think about it-it’s easy afterall nobody thinks of gray. Its not depression-it’s guilt but it’s not guilt either.
What would grey say if she read this? Probably that she doesn’t deserve to be written about, that she is just a mediocrity, not even a mistake-nothing that strong. A blemish. Some artist somehwere must have dropped the white on black staining it’s holiness or the black on white destroying the equilibrium and thus grey was born. A passable excuse for a color. Neither a color nor a shade. Not worth of attention, not worthy of glorification and not worth berating. Plainly average. Painfully average. But pain only to oneself. To white grey seems so dark. She is amazed at how brilliantly dark gray is. Perhaps not aware of the color black grey thinks to herself. Black thinks of how pure and soft grey is (perhaps she doesn’t know white. ) Grey is but a comparison it’s useless to say stop comparing yourself because that’s what it is- the comparison. The boring part. The part so common no one bothers and when it does get attention it is undeserved. What is the feeling you get when you have undeserved attention? Guilt? But it’s much more? Depression? But it’s much less. Its gray. Gray at the seams. Gray at core. Bursting with a single layer of mediocrity, bursting with the feeling of not belonging, bursting with loneliness, with guilt, with depression. A single color all over life.
And now we’re so devoid of color we dont know what it means.
I do not know what this feeling is called but it likes to visit so often that I must call it something. So when someone asks how do I feel?
I feel fine. I feel great.