The grey is starting to bother me.

It was the one colour that I associated with comfort zones – the area between the extremes, where everything is the same and predictable.
Never did I expect it to exert another meaning to me, so much that the greyness has imprinted a different world in me.

I always wondered why the hospitals had grey walls in them.
It was the grey of the dead. The decayed. The flesh. The skin. The heart.
More than those numb feelings.
And with one stretch of walk through a corridor, the grey presented its new meaning to me.

Walls.

The walls are grey now. Everywhere.
Even the sunshine yellow of my bright little bedroom is getting dull day by day.
It was like something was draining the colour from my life slowly, without anyone noticing – but I noticed.
I noticed how my clothes did not have the colours anymore, how my favourite lipstick didn’t hold that shade anymore and how my flowers looked no bright anymore.

Paranoid.

That was what he called me the day I screamed when I saw that the grey had started to creep into my body too.
One strand of hair.
But I couldn’t let it lure me into its numb world.

I knew the numb world hold too much pain.

I coloured the strand, only for it to turn grey again. I plucked it, only for my horror to see more of them shooting up.

I gave up.
I let it grey my world, watched my skin turn pale.
I watched the grey seeping everywhere till it consumed my eyes, and couldn’t see anymore.

Now I know why our dead carried the grey portraits.

© lostforever