Beyond the Grey

In daytime hours below grey skies, in good mornings to passers by, through forced, faked and manufactured smiles.

In the embrace of his tailored slate grey suit, which paints a picture that contradicts the reality of his existence, he swaggers on, and on, and on.

Awkward smoky eyes trying to peel their fixation from the grey pavement. Numbness, unfocused and pain deafened from the sounds of the downtown bustle.

The only connection he can muster among it are with the homeless, scattered along street corners and back alleys, whom he witnesses have too become swallowed by the grey.

The day churns on with no recall of any actual moment, once passed. For the wish to forget far exceeds any wish to remember.

From the moment he woke, sleep was all he could chase throughout each hour of this damp and dreary day.

Later, as darkness falls, pill on his tongue, drink in his hand, respite, thirty minutes and counting. He anticipates a slumber where lies his only chance to be alive but not having to consciously face life.

The middle of the night plays its own cruel game tapping him out of the quiet.

A few hours in, he raises his head, jolts up in his bed, not exactly sure where he is. It’s happening again, as it has for as long as he can remember.

The room unfamiliar, dark grey, no windows or doors and he is frozen, trapped in a maze without walls.

Some nights the room is light grey, heavily fogged, and while he sometimes sees shaded doorways, he’s not sure where they will lead him so he remains robotic and still.

He’s not new to the heaviness of this emptiness and he’s digging deep for logic, wide-eyed with panic, heart pounding erratically; lost in the grey.

After a few minutes of staring into the dark, strained vision, confused and frightened, the unfamiliar dissolves and transforms back into his bedroom again.

He settles under the grey bedsheets, now damp and disturbed by another unwelcome episode, stroking the sweat from his forehead in a strange combination of exhaustion and relief.

At war with his existence, tears are dripping from his tired eyes and he remains undecided as to whether the days of grey or nights of grey are worse.

Before long, the sun creeps through the edge of his blinds and while he welcomes the reprieve from the fears of the metallic shadows that chased him only hours earlier, the grey will walk beside him still.

Swallowed, wallowing in the murky, the muddy, the madness, following in the same sad steps of the prior day and many which came before.

Stepping naked into the cool morning air, he sparks his cigarette, watching as the grey smoke makes a beautifully poetic dance as it leaves his lips and he envies its freedom as it swirls a short lifespan.

A morning dove, in all its earthy colours of his grey spectrum drifts in from the field below and releases a gentle coo, reminding him that grey can be calm and beautiful too.

He sits with the bird a while and welcomes a peaceful serenade, and through that single song, which he senses was meant just for him, the melody becomes the silver lining of his grey.

He despises the grey and wishes it away. And so, with strength and intention, he decides to carry this silver lining with him through his day as a reminder that perhaps the grey is a warm and loving shadow of hope; that with any luck, his grey will catch wings and magically swirl with the wind, ushering him on a hopeful journey to light, freedom and possibility.