The beauty of gray.

I love the colour gray, not just because it’s a pretty colour, but because it’s the colour of all misunderstood. It’s the colour of the waves that fall upon shoulders of the wise, people that have the fortune of living longer on this earth then many ever get to achieve. We’ve learned to fear growing old, to prevent wrinkles instead of letting gravity do our makeup. But getting old shows you’re an accumulation of everyone you’ve ever loved and everything you’ve ever learned. Gray is the colour of storm clouds that rain upon gardens and bring colour to trees and grass when they could never have any within themselves. They wanted children to stop gazing up at them in disappoint because of a ruined playdate, so they turned our eyes to the ground. They helped the flowers bloom to avert our gaze in shame of themselves, but how are we to call them “bad weather” when all they do is give us beauty? Gray is the colour of melancholy, but how will we appreciate any good in life if we’ve never experienced that bad? How are we to learn anything, or get close with people, or even feel happy without being a bit unhappy sometimes? Without knowing the contrast? Gray is the colour of what I stand for, even if I forget it sometimes.