White light from the street lamps shone in from the blinded window.
Everything was grey.
The cold, painted brick wall was all I had.
I held my hand against it as I laid facing on the cheap bed.
I had never felt silence like this.
Grey always felt good.
It felt good in my hand.
It felt good on my skin.
It felt good in my eyes.
I could see nothing else.
The cold brick was all I had and all I wanted.
It was the only moment of neutrality in the loud world around me,
the loud pain inside me.
I thought I would never see color again,
and I was realized.
I did not move.
I sank into the conformity of the moment.
I wasn’t unwanted.
The grey did not care.
It held me in it’s arms and accepted me as I was.
It’s gift to me was the cold brick wall.
The only thing that felt real.
It did not pulse.
It did not live.
It was grey.
I wanted to be grey.
I offered my hand to the wall,
but the grey did not accept me.
It was just there for a visit.
It told me it would come back for me.
I will wait for the wall again.