native winterland peoples have a ton of words for snow.
college peeps have just as many for the act of vomiting.
how is it, in the land of no sun ever, that we have but one word for the color that paints our every day existence? yes yes we have several words and descriptors for rain (light, wet, mist, downpour, shower, etc etc). but what of the clouds? it is always just CLOUDY. and the sky, it is always just GRAY. (Side note: Portland, I realized, is more gray than Seattle. how possible? you might ask. because it is flat and there is more unobstructed view of the gray sky. more gray sky equals grayer.) so might I suggest, for variety, we start getting a little more specific on this protective winter blanket we are tucked under. what about 'warm duvet gray'? tho with the rain, slight chill and no-nonsense mood I'm in, perhaps 'wet pavement gray' is more apt? (Portland skies could be 'magnetic gray' to many, 'dorian gray' a few maybe including me.) Some days, I will admit, it feels a little 'cinder block gray,' others lean towards 'silver lining gray,' though sometimes with a little effort called meditating and positive thought.
how is it volumes upon volumes of poetry, song and other literature have not been written on the subject? maybe it has and there's just not enough light that comes into my room for me to see the words on the page very clearly. perhaps it is not the most motivating of muses out there. is it the personification of confusion of neither here nor there? or the manifestation of balance of light and dark? a subtle sort of happy medium. 'stone partition gray' or 'cathedral gray,' 'solitaire gray' or 'campfire smoke gray'?
this day, this day like yesterday, the probable tomorrow.
gray gray gray.
dirty sock cardigan sweater. charcoal smudged figure drawings. matte finish laptop covers. the buttons on my cell phone, the fluff of dust in the cuff of my pegged pants.
gray gray gray, you've made my day.