The grays

by Reuben

Write what you know.

What do I know?

I know the feeling of losing a friend, longing for a father, being broken, being sad. I know the feeling of not being good enough, being selfish, undeserving, hurting other people. The destruction and the chaos within me, I know it all too well, and I wish I didn't.

But that would all be too perfect, wouldn't it?

I think that’s one of the reasons–no, the only reason–why I love the fall better than the spring. The spring is too perfect. The flowers are blooming, the weather is nice. Everything is colorful. The butterflies and the insects are everywhere. But everything can only be bright and optimistic for so long.

The fall? The fall is melancholic. The leaves are drying out. The trees look seemingly dead. It gets a little colder. Everything is a mess. But all that mess blends altogether to create the beautiful hues of oranges, reds, and yellows. It’s nice. It’s sad. It’s bittersweet. I know it all too well, and I like that I do.

I know the inviting aroma of coffee as I pour hot water on it, knowing it will remind me of my mother when she passes away. The nostalgia, the pain, the tranquility that comes to me when it rains. Drinking soy milk that reminds me of my father who has long passed. The aching feeling in my chest when someone doesn't seem to be the person I thought they would be.

The fall has it all, the bittersweet things. It’s so much closer to what reality is about. There’s the good, there’s the bad, and I appreciate seeing both the good and the bad continuously create something memorable. Something for the better. And maybe, just maybe, we can stop seeing black and white, and appreciate the grays.