What About the Grey?

There are cracks. Just beneath the surface. ‘I know how to make you whole again,’ she says. And with a touch she takes away all the scars. Takes away all the tears, takes away all the years. ‘The same thing happened to me once before. And then I woke from a dream and it happened again. Made me wonder if my dreams really were separate from my reality.’ And then she left me to ponder that. Closed her eyes and stepped forward into a dream world all her own. I thought about following her. Let’s be whole there. Let’s be whole there together. But then when I tried to step through behind her I woke in a different time. it’s a whole different thing to be together in dreams. We try. We always try. ‘I’ll see you when I close my eyes.’ And sometimes I do see her when I close my eyes. But in those times, she never sees me. In those times, when what I want more than anything is for her to see me, she always turns her head away. And she stays silent as we talk about our lives in black and white, and I ask her about the grey. ‘What grey?’ she finally responds. ‘Yes no, up down, left right. Sometimes there is no grey.’ And then sometimes there’s nothing but grey. Living in a fog and everywhere I turn looks the same. Grayed out, ghostly images of the world I thought I knew. Then I took a picture and watched it in the darkroom as it turned into something I had never seen before.

Sometimes we remember the world exactly as we saw it. And sometimes we take a paintbrush and create an abstraction that would make Picasso proud.

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