A Grey Note👣

Okay, so I don’t really know what my brain is up to. Oh, well. Tea’s done, the cup’s empty. I made good tea today.

It's raining outside. I don’t know why I’m writing this, but I am at peace while writing this.

I love to study Forensic Psychology. It’s the gore, the murders, the sheer crimes humans commit. Studying it feels like accepting the criminal side of us, entering that world without hate or blame, just recognizing that it exists. It’s fascinating. The human mind! I only brought this up because it’s mid-sems. Otherwise, eating, sleeping, and reading are my only loyal activities.

It was raining; it still is. But in the last few seconds, it’s gone dark. The sky is grey—all grey—the "gloomy" grey for some while the "romantic" grey for others. For me today, it’s a "numb" grey.

A grey that makes you feel something yet nothing. A grey that makes your thoughts align.... Scratch that!!! 

It started raining heavily. God, I love that sound! I want to get drenched, but I can’t. The rain’s sound is so peaceful, or maybe it’s deceitful. It’s a catalyst for a storm inside—the kind that feels like a detox, a mirror for reflection. A storm!

I love the feel of the paper. I love that it lets me put this all out, without needing to be presentable.

But I know I’m still doing it. I’m still writing to convince the world. I’m still romanticizing things, and I hate it. I’m hating it even now. It’s cheating!  It’s like wearing a mask in front of a mirror and trying to see your actual face, knowing the whole time that the mask is there.

The rain has stopped. But I’m still in love with how my thoughts shift with its intensity. Is that a boon or a curse? The way I feel these extremes, the constant on/off feeling. I don't know what to call it. Let’s just call it ugly, bad, unwanted.

The sentences are getting less intense now that the rain has gone. I can feel the change of shade on the paper, like a Snapchat filter working. The filter changes, making my thoughts appear presentable. But they are not! 

They are ugly. They are grey. 

Grey! Grey! Grey! Grey! Grey! 

 It feels so good to write and repeat this word aloud. It feels like allowing yourself to be imperfect. But am I? Am I allowing it? The mask is still on. I know it. I’m still standing in front of the mirror. 

In front of the page! 

I have to stop writing about it. My mind goes blank when I try to take the mask off. It’s not healthy. I know.

It's bad. I don't like things this way. I like things when they are predictable.

It’s less grey now. The less grey of people who feel like skipping their daily jobs because it’s Saturday morning. 

Let’s call it "corporate grey." 

My words don't always make sense, but writing them feels good.

Suddenly, I’m thinking of a bathroom floor. I don't know why I wrote it, but now I want to explore it. I’ve always had this strange desire: to lie flat on the cool bathroom floor, turn on the shower just for the sound of the water, and close my eyes. I've always dreamt of it. I’ve never tried it, surprisingly.

It wouldn't be awkward. Maybe I’d just forget. Inside those bathroom walls, I’d just forget. The mask would be out. And for once… I would forget the mask.

Shruti Sawant.