The Gray… it symbolizes something between; it is the place between darkness and light that holds the best and worst of all. My hands are stuffed into the might of the ethereal. Have you ever wondered just how strong the innocuous is? It holds everything, and nothing, and stops all arguments with a single piece of punctuation.
There are times when I am simply tired. I listen to the music and wish my life into something else. I know why I do it but it doesn’t make it any easier to change. I wonder just how long it will take to change, once I recognize that it needs to. The gray can be so long sometimes.
Gray comes from mixing odd parts of different colors. I wonder how many of our lives are mixtures of a Pantone gray, hovering above choosing a primal color, waiting for that instinctive influx of something pure. Is that what does it? Is that what shoves us from the middle ground – the infusion of either light or dark (are capital letters necessary?)
Perhaps that’s the breath I’ve been holding – that something shining to come along and infuse me. And still, I play my life as if it were a refrain, a bridge to something more. It is a solemn song, quiet and yet filled with oboe longing. I am searching for that next big phase, whatever it is. What I am I, I ask. What will I become? How will it all end? This is the great mystery, isn’t it? It is the one time we don’t get to read the end of the book. No one knows how this story ends. It sits on the cart, waiting to be put into its correct genre only after the last word has been whispered.
I promise, it will not be “Rosebud.” Or will it?