That's how it is life on the gray scale. Everything is measured in degrees, tones, half tones. It's like you wait your whole life for colour and then when it does come you're so taken back by its effulgence you miss it. Like a fast passing weekend. Something ephemeral in an otherwise calm existence. There's reflection, but then there is a return. To be a war correspondent on one's own life is a scary thought, then again I guess so is all self reflection, maybe I should stop thinking so much. Some days you wake up and everything is gray and you hate everyone, then other days....Well, I wouldn't say you love everyone, but rather you don't care enough to notice. Don't fret, I'm not returning to my old self, this whole melancholy prose is how I deal with a shitty fuck day on the train.
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