Grey is winter. January.
It soaks into my skin, saturates my cells, sinks me into its weight like a hide, held on by wrinkles of fog and thick folds of melancholy.
To assuage this elephantine appearance I determine to find another way.
The fog, the grey, there in the sky, the air, the walls outside my doorway still yet, yes.
Yet, I turn to the table, the desk, the calendar with dates scribed in ink yes, futuring yes, my footprints along the path yes.
Freeing me from the weight of this hide-skin with the truth of life yes. This hope. This grey. This blank canvas?
Full of possibility, full of opportunity, full of visioneering.
What if this is the truth of the grey of January?
A weighty space turning my vision inward to opportune the visions close in there, before my eyes. Yes.