Preface – this piece is a relatively new piece which was originally just meant to be a simple vent. honestly tho? its kinda spiraled out from there and became probably one of my best pieces of writing. enjoy!
I had always found gray a strange colour. The colour of apathy, of cold unfeeling slate. While black is the colour of onyx scorn, of quiet mystery, and white the colour of radiance, the bright wonder of the morning sky, gray, is just that. Gray. Unremarkable, odd. One would expect gray to be the liveliest colour, being a mix of two such opposing shades, and yet, it’s not. It’s bland, tasteless, monotonous, just enough black to dull the wonder of brightness, but lacking that deep shade to reveal its striking mystique. Suffice to say, it’s not a particularly common sight where I’m from. Gray is usually shunned away, found in the deepest recesses, hidden away from the public eye, shielded from the bright life of the other colours. But gray is odd in another way.
I live in a bright, lively city. One where tapestries of brilliant rainbow scatters all over, splatters of red, orange and yellow contrasting spots of green, violet and blue, hell even browns and blacks, no colour left out, all except of course, gray. There’s scant a moment where colours don’t jump out at me, where bright lively yellows sing with quieter, more mature purples, the harmony to end all harmonies, the unison to end all unisons.
But on off days, quiet days that stirred in discomfort, rifts would form in those colours. Spots where I swore I saw yellows and purples dancing together suddenly losing that connection, reds and blues dipping further and further away. Split apart by dullness, by the ever-dreaded gray.
But those days were always uncommon, the gray quickly being covered up by more and more of that vivid harmony, and even if those days unsettled, disconcerted, creeped below the skin, one could take solace in the fact that they would come and go, the dance only being paused, not stopped.
However, on a particularly dull day, the gray would spread again, but this time, it never stopped. The monotony would spread and spread until pockets of sprightly dancing would be reduced to slate. Pockets of yellow and red, snuffed out. Their fire forever consumed by apathy. Spots where purple and blue previously stood, wiped out, their calm virtue, forever consumed by apathy. Even the deep mysterious onyx and the radiant white would be silenced, forever consumed by apathy.
Day by day, moon by moon, more and more of vibrancy would be erased by the dull, empty gray. And on one fatefully apocalyptic morning, it would all just go.
Much of the city, replaced by cold, unfeeling gray, much of it erased by mundanity. What was once there, unrecognisable. Of course, colour still remained, but so much just went, missing. Entropy eating away at the vibrancy of what once was. And while the city remained, prepared to rebuild and expand anew, new patterns forming, colours springing back into songs and dances anew, and old patterns still dancing, as beautiful as they’ve ever been, the entropy remains. The slate remains, the apathy remains. And I’m left wondering if it’ll all spiral downwards again, and if maybe next time, next time,
I’ll drown in it.
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