The color is grey

We seek definitions. One sweep of a black brush on a canvas and lo behold- we have a tree, a river with sharp banks, a house that can withstand a 20.00 seismic tremor. We need refuge from the intimidating and blurry reality, the overwhelming din of which seeks to shake the roots of our existence in this world. And so we need exactness, precision and discreteness. We need to be comforted. We draw lines, boundaries around emotions, sexual orientations, relationships, love, comfort zones- of the ‘you cannot enter types’, sharper and more permanent steel knives, of barbed wires that hold us down to the solid earth, lest gravity fail from doing its wonderful job, marriages and divorce decrees that are doled out by staid looking courthouses. We judge- She is right, that is wrong - thank your polycarbonate glasses - you poor astigmatics and myopics. Even the shadows are sharp; the objects that cast them in the first place are now sharper. I look at the diffuse glow from a soft white bulb- alas I can see the edge where the bulb ends and the cooler air takes over. Maybe morning will be kinder and I can gaze at the horizon and know that the lines are merely by-products of our colorful and vivid imaginations.