Being gray is being in between where you may move in either direction. Standing in the middle is easy access, but it is not. Access varies on the distance, the spatial constraints, and the steepness or narrowness of the path you are trying to take. The colors have a completely different meaning when looked at. However, colors are not always seen.
Let us say that it is black, does it necessarily mean it is dark or can there be “light”. I am “dark”, yet I dress in browns, grays, whites, and blacks. The cloud hangs over my head but it is nowhere to be seen. As the rain falls onto me it falls warmly and purple even though you know it is not truly purple. So why care about color anyway?
I am complex and simple and something in between and you are too, something in between. We are a figment of my imagination and reality that is oftentimes warm and breezy with the exhaled sighs pertinent to this idea of peace. Tumultuously, tossing and turning with the tick-ticking of the seconds from my straightforward days that sing sweetly, that sing softly… The pauses between these sentences seem to elude me like the waterfall that sprays the leaves when coming down, never to have that part return to the edge of its original descent.
White bubbles under the bright blue sky—breathe. Breezing through and besting the worst of the heat in its glorious candor, the moving wind is crisp and separate in the way that it is “light”. It picks up and slows down as it breathes its life into you and me. I am living in clouds of gray and in colorless wind that allows me to be long enough to see and feel the colors that I am writing of.