There is something special about forgetting what it's like to live.
Of course, there's always the question to whether that's a good kind of special or a bad kind of special.
You like to call it Gray Special. Neutral. It's a neutral kind of special. A thing that just is there and it's different but it's there. It's there and it's gray. It's nothing notable, but it's different.
It can become a normal. A gray normal. Isn't that so dreary? Maybe, but you can't really say.
It's cold outside, you know, so cold your skin is numb and the blood inside is even more numb. So cold it's like you're not alive at all. It's a gray special kind of feeling, one that makes you ponder about what it means.
The snow flakes down in a flurry, landing here and there and burning through your coat. It looks like ash; only the opposite in the fact that snow is cold and wet. It's all in the same though, you think.
But you miss the flames. You miss the way they could wash everything away, as ironic as it is to say that. Let it burn. Let it all burn, you want to say. But you don't say anything, you just stand and twist the skin on your fingers.
It's normal to be so unmade.
It always was, in some way or another, the only reality for you.
