Gray Reflection

How can the moon shine so bright? How may the stars radiate light, even from so far away? Why does the sun burn eternal, and only a thin, invisible shield protect? Everything is balanced, in a perfect dance, a perfect song, an eternal symphony, spinning, round and round, never ceasing, always, always, moving, spinning, turning-

Perfect.

Oh? Perfect? What is perfect? Not the moon, that merely steals the light from the sun? Not the stars, who are so far away that it does not matter what happens? Not the sun, that dries out all living things quicker than it nourishes them?

Well… perhaps the sun comparison was unfair. The sun provides light to the world, gives life to those who can stand it- but it is not perfect. It can still kill.

A double-edged blade? I've never used one of those. You mean doing things that are both good and bad? Two opposite consequences for the same action?

Then the sun comparison was completely unfair. Good and bad… good and evil… and yet, does evil- backwards- not spell live? And is not good, without one of the 'o's, God? Are both right?

One part of purity- one of taint. Mixed together, turning, swirling, continuously shifting which part is shown more to the world, never once stopping its torrent.

That is how I see you. That is how I see all. So many people, all mixed together, creating one big piece of something that can only be art- for in what other form can such chaos be considered beautiful, or considered progress?

In what other way can disorder bear any fruits that would be ripe to eat?

You'll be staring at these words, but not be reading them, understanding them. Most lives are ordered- you do this on one day, this on another, and this at this certain time. Every single day. Every single week. Every single year. For as long as you need to do whatever you do, it will be done the same way, at the same time, on the same day. Order.

Not chaos, not disorder. Even the slightest change, fluctuation, from your wonderful order can cause you to stop everything else to stop the change. Minimal controlled change you can stand- as long as you know the change, know the differences.

You see the world in black-and-white, with the occasional splotch of grey. You see faces and colors, opportunities and experiments, ideas and hypothesis coming to fruition. You see straight facts, all the while ignoring all else unless it is absolutely critical to maintain your order.

And you do so with both a blind outer eye- and a closed inner eye.

People are black and white- they may change, but there are never spots of grey. You understand that the sun is a- what did you call it?- a double-edged blade? Then why can you not understand that people- humans- consciences- are not just a double-edged blade.

They can be the rivulets running down the middle, the flat of the blade that can do no damage.

You do not truly see- not what you might be able to see, not everything that there is to see.

I look up, and an old woman is sitting across from me, watching her child- or grandchild- play on the swings. I see a young man standing by the park entrance, his head turned out towards the street. I see a young woman, fresh from the oppressive halls of institution, laying down under the old oak, and letting the sun dapples pass over her.

That is also what you would see.

But around them, in them- the old woman is smiling gently, a few small wrinkles creasing her face, but even from here not all are laugh lines. Her eyes, hidden by a brim from a sunhat, are filled with sadness.

The young man by the park entrance keeps glancing over his shoulder, and his posture, although appearing relaxed, is rigged and taught, ready to move at a moment's notice. He checks the street again, the area to the left, the area to the right. But he does not check behind him, does not see me watching. His caution is useless. He does not want to be there.

The young woman, sleeping away. Tired, exhausted, pushed past the breaking point. Even in sleep her hands are clenched, anger and hurt curling fingers to claw into soft, fleshy palms. Her brows are furrowed, but only slightly, and her lips barely move. Her bag is close by, ready to be grabbed if she should need anything from it.

But none are white, and none are black. The old woman, for all her pains, still moves and lives with vitality and good humor. Lighter than gray, though not by much- but certainly not white.

The young man, not quite black, somewhat darker than gray. Flicking back and forth as he moves his head, and finally looks behind him, sees me. A nervous smile from him- a reassuring one from me- and he turns around, walking towards me, into the park, hands in his pockets. Back to even gray- then the slightest more to white.

The young woman, still asleep. Not white, not black, not gray, not for longer than a second, flickering, flashing, turning and swirling- stopping for a moment, and beginning again.

The children, not a pure white, though closer than any others. One or two with a darker shade- not for what they had done, nor what has been done in their pasts, but for the ice creams in their hands and two other saddened children nearby. But never completely black, nor white.

Gray. Shades of gray. That's all I've ever been able to see. The differences in the shades always stood out more with some people than other, black and white and gray, always changing, always mixing, adding- becoming new, then old, then new again, all in a few seconds.

Once I saw the world in black and white. Once, a long time ago, when my mind had not fully understood what it was to be human, what it was to live, to exist, to the fullest, having complete confidence in both yourself and others.

So, so long ago.

And then the world became gray, and what was once darkest black became such a tantalizing shade of gray, and what was once white became hidden behind that veil, but it made no difference- both were of the same shade- both were even. And everything seemed to mix together, nothing ever being black, nor white.

He used to say that I was pure white. I could never understand how a mere human could be pure white- but He would insist that if He was even slightly black, then I must be of the purest white.

And so many disagreed with Him, so many saying that He had no taint, that He was white. But they never saw- no one ever does.

So I sit here, and the young woman, still changing back and forth and round in circles, stands up from her sleep and grabs her bag, heading off to work. The old woman again gathers together her grandchildren and begins to head home for possibly a late lunch. Other people pass by, none paying any attention to their surroundings.

All gray.

Do I have a point I am trying to make? Is there such thing as a point to this sort of thinking? I doubt it matters, not now. A young boy, not much younger than I was when I first Realized, stands, staring at me. He looks his age, first year of high school, maybe. His grays move faster than any others, conflicting more and changing continuously.

I believe that he can maybe understand- Realize- too, if someone would give him they chance- as they did me.

I say good-bye to you, my beloved tomodachi, and hope you can forgive me.

Because, to me, He was both white, and black, and gray- and living in Gray, alone, is too hard to bear.

((((((((((((((BREAK)))))))))))))))))))

(purrs) no idea what made me write this- I think it was the whole, "Listening to Ghost of a Rose for two weeks straight, non-stop", or maybe it was just me and my usual, "What would it feel like to be fatally wounded? What would it feel like to cause that wound?", and other random, dead-centered thoughts.

And frankly, I was really annoyed at a number of things. I have decided to wage a war against certain colors and certain people who like to break my wonderful DVD boxes that I've had all of one week (though, I did get an Obelisk card for free, so...)