Born in the days of autumn rain and slushy snow, the colour of rain and salty spray of seawater still shows in my eyes. Neither clearly grey nor blue, so I just call it the colour of rain, of steel-blue clouds, of a wall of fog on the mountain side, clinging to the golden trees like a sheet of grey silk. I’m born of rain, and rain is what runs in my veins, steaming and bubbling when meeting the fire flowing from my heart. I’m born of rain, and when I feel blue, blue like rain and fog on a forsaken shore, I’m larger than the sum of my parts, I’m more than one raindrop – I’m a storm, a force of nature, and yet just a drenched figure, huddled between rocks and watching myself pass into the fog. I’m born of rain, and it remains inside and outside of me. There is a cloud following me, watering the thoughts I mindlessly sow in the furrows my inner storm tore open, while I follow a the trail this gale I am is blazing in front of me. Sometimes the thoughts I sow are seeds as blue as a clear-washed sky, sometimes as dark as a thunderstorm rolling heavy with rain. I’m born of rain, and I won’t ever escape what my eyes betray. I’m born of rain, and I’m learning to choose to embrace the clouds, to stuff them with white feather-dreams to make them less heavy, hugging them close like a pillow or a blanket, listening to the rain inside and watching it drawing patterns in my mind, tracing story lines down a window pane in intricate patterns, stories to write down, to escape into like sailing on paper ships across foreign seas, to capture in my cupped hands and watching them spill on crumbling paper, sometimes for myself, sometimes for others to read.
Some days I wake up and the world is grey. Sometimes this coincides with a flat grey sky outside, but it doesn’t have to.
I wake up and feel too tired to sit up, to open my eyes, to be happy about the chances a new day might bring.
I wake up and everything looks like out of a dark movie, more black and white and sepia than actual colours, and even hazy morning sun turns into massive clouds and cold rain. I see the world in cold greys and feel too old for my age.
Some days I wake up and go about with my daily chores as far as I manage, but usually I don’t get far. Too cold inside out, too monotonous, too monochrome in low-key grey-scale with raspy noise like rain on ISO 1600.
Some days are dark and all I want to do is cry and sleep and eat, sometimes not even eat because there is nothing to be found tasty enough to be worth the effort of opening a tin, putting a pot on the stove, reaching for bowl and spoon.
I silently cry out to the walls, cry without real tears while knowing it will be long hours until I will see people I call friends, at least secretly, while being afraid of being told they hate me as soon as I will be bold enough to tell them how much I love being around them.
Some days I sleep away and ask myself why I can’t just quit this and instead work nine to five and be done, because the world is too cold and grey to move bold ideas and blurry concepts in a cluttered mind, trapped between black concrete walls. It takes hours to force myself to start concentrating on the task at hand, and by then the clouds are so heavy I feel I won’t be able to wake up ever again.
Some days I try to pray, while already knowing I’ve shut myself down so far I won’t hear the answer, shut down to feel only the cold surface of all the jagged emotions threatening to pierce the last remnants of calm sea, curled into a tight ball to keep the harsh winds from the raw landscapes of a bared soul.
Today is grey on both sides of the windowpane in my small corner of our study. Even though I know I will have to start and finish this work and then I’ll be able to play I can’t remove myself from my stupor. Writing helps a little, so does the faint hope of someone being there to offer a smile tonight, but I’m scared the clouds will be too black with rain by then to be able to walk the line between opening myself and not conjuring up a full force flooding sweeping away every tiny offered token of kindness.
Grey days mean not knowing when there will be warmth and sunshine again, hardly being able to believe in these concepts at all no matter how many people talk about these. Still, I know that I have to wait and do my best to stay in touch with this day, because it might become better. Playing is the only thing I look forward today, because music and sweat and laughter will push everything away if I stay strong until then. Writing, praying, waiting for the familiar rhythm of movements to grasp me, carrying me to faraway places of sun and sea for a while.