gray.

Yesterday at the beach the skies were gray, the beach littered with thorny debris of a storm several days past. I cannot help but associate that grayness with myself. I may see in color, but I feel in gray, a soft fuzz in my brain. A sort of weight, like that of a humid day, stifling on my shoulders, in my lungs. Sometimes I wish for a splash of vibrant red to cut through all that gray. But the ink beneath would be revealed, a roiling darkness hidden to most. It would spill through the wound in the cloak, and bleed through the fabric, reaching for anything and everything and consuming it, and everyone would see that the red is not red at all, for that is not blood in my veins but ink, stolen from millions of words, sequestered deep in my memories. Memories like the aftermath of the storm, a reminder of lashing wind and beating rain, punishment, pain, terror. Memories I press down. Watch your step, my mind cautions. There are thorns around.