Hysterical letters to my sanity

grey

It is grey outside.
Although it is not particularly unnerving, the sky's pale form, ceaseless in colour.
There are no clouds to blemish the face of the heavens. Instead there is a shade like that of a long sigh. It is pearly like the kind you find in seashells. Seashells you'd find on the beach. Wouldn't this day be the perfect way to spend an afternoon. Laying on colourless sand with a characterless sun. You'd be all alone in the world as nothingness stretches across the sky that reflects on the still water. A unremarkable sky of dull colour. How rare is it to see a day be somber grey. You can find the beauty in muted days. They are silent without even wind but perhaps a fragile fog. Maybe a mist without shade or shine. Like your living in a cloud way up in the stretching slivering sky. You feel a smile slink over your face in achievement, for how many can say they enjoyed a grey day. It is like humming the tune of a song you'd never heard. Or how electricity carries in a quiet room. Maybe how a ceiling fan whirs at night when it's warm. Maybe like room temperature tap water or the sound your soul makes when it sees it's old friend again, only he wears a new cloak and he has a new name, but still death and life are the same.