Shades in the Gray

Now death is to me like health to the sick, like the smell of a lotus, like the wish of a man to see his house after years of captivity. If only there was one that could see beyond death, to the life within. If only there was one that could bring the spark back - wouldn’t that be grand?

In the land of Dubba Sa, there is endless, unceasing sorrow. The land, what little vegetation there is, the people and the animals; all are interchangeable, woven in shades of nothing.

The sameness is timeless. How can one tell time when every hour of the day looks the same as the last? When it is impossible to tell if the light has grown bright or dim, or moved at all through the sky? When everything is bland and dull, without life or shine.

They say that Death came to this land ages ago. He looked around high and low for something, anything that would be worth taking. He found nothing, so he left. And everything has existed in the sameness of their existence ever since.

The people tried crying out to him at one time, begging him to come back. It was like he never heard, never listened. And so they cried. An ocean they cried, but it was all gray, all the same, all dreary and dull.

And so they dried their tears and dried the ocean. And they started back into their lives.

Now they follow the motions as prescribed to them from the Time Before. The time before everything was dim, and gray, and full of despair. The time when, some say, there was something like light. And possibly good memories, good things. Only the eldest remember those times now, but their recollections are confusing to those who have only ever known gray and despair.

No one knows how the gray started. Some say it just appeared one day fully formed. Their eyes opened and the world was how it is now. Others say it came from a heart breaking, someone breaking the heart of some creator god or goddess. And a very small few claim that the world is ash because of a dragon of despair.

It is not a regular dragon. Not one that spews fire and reigns down bloody judgment. It is a quiet dragon. One that tangles around your heart, whispers in your ear of things you wish had come to pass, things you dreamed would happen, hopes never fulfilled. It sweetly, softly sings of the lost opportunities, of loves lost to time and distance. Of all those things you truly wanted in life and never achieved. And it croons to you of despair.

Endless, graying, energy sapping despair. The desire to sleep and never wake. The draining of the luster of life. The dimming of all desire to push, to break away, to strive for more. Why should you struggle so?, it asks. Why struggle, when giving up and just existing is so much easier?

And so they do, these tired and beaten down people. 

They give up, first in ones and twos. Eventually whole towns just move about listless and dull. There is no laughter. No one can remember the last time there was anything to laugh about. There is no singing, no dancing. There is no talking; no raised voices; no whispers. Just the near silent shuffling as people go about the motions of existence.

And even though they have given up. Even though despair has them fully in its gray grasp. Still Death does not come, does not bring release from this meaningless existence.

What have these people done that is so heinous, so horrible, that Death has abandoned them to the grayness of nonliving?

Years; centuries; eons pass. Time is endless. Time is meaningless. Effort bears no fruit; why keep trying?

Life born into this endless despair and gray should also be gray and despairing. And most life is. All except for one. A small girl child, born to despairing, gray parents. Parents who try to love her, to give her what care they can. But parents who are overwhelmed by a life full of dullness and sameness. Who have let themselves be worn down by the sameness of the world around them. Parents who have longed for an ending and only received more struggle.

This child is different, somehow, than all the rest. She doesn’t see the gray for what it is. She finds textures, shades, differences in the dimness around her.

Her parents chide her for her fancy. How can she see something that isn’t there? Can’t she see the same gray that everyone else does? That there is nothing different in the objects and world around her and she is doomed to despair and a want for an ending the same as everyone else?

She perseveres. Of course she sees the gray. But can’t they see the texture of this leaf. The shades in the petals of that flower. The subtle differences in the blades of grass.

Dreamer, they call her. Wishful, hopeful, odd, they whisper as she walks past. It’s the only time they whisper any more, but none of them notice or realize that she is making them wake up. To take an interest in the world around them. To focus around the gray.

They don’t realize that by caring again, even about something so negative, they are connecting with themselves and the world again.

One day she meets a stranger, robed in black. Someone strange, someone new; someone different. She greets him and he asks what she sees.

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“When you look at the world, what is it that you see, exactly? They tell me you speak of textures and shades, designs that others can’t see. That you urge them to look and yet they just whisper behind their hands about your supposed lack of mind,” he replies.

She huffs, “Well, they’re wrong. I see all of the different plants and leaves, the subtle shades in the flowers. I can tell when the sky is angry, when it is sad. I can see when the sun is joyful and when it wants to hide. I can see everything, because I want to look. I want to see beyond the gray.”

“Interesting,” the stranger says. “And what do you see when you look at me?”

“I don’t know,” she puzzles. “You have the outline of a man, but your insides…. I don’t have words to describe what your insides look like.”

“Can you try?” he asks.

“If sadness had a color. If warmth had a feel. If what they called love had a taste and a smell. If all the grass and the trees started whispering, and the flowers started dancing. If there was such a thing as bursting with the best feeling in the world; it still wouldn’t describe all of the things I see in your insides,” she tried to explain.

“I see,” he murmured quietly. He sat there for a minute, looking at her, weighing her words. Trying to sift through all of her meaning. “Do you know who I am?” he finally asked.

“No,” she replied.

“I am Death, child,” he says, “and I came back to this land to answer all of the prayers and despairing pleas of your people. Long ago I came here, looking for a spark of anything that would redeem or condemn your people to an end. I was ready to give them the end they so desperately craved. But I do not think they deserve that end.”

“Why did you punish them?” she asked.

“I didn’t; my counterpart Life did. Life saw their wastefulness, their desire for something new, better, shinier. He saw their greed and their constant need for more. He despaired of them learning moderation, of learning how to balance their needs and their wants. Slowly his despair leached the world of his presence. And yet, they only consumed more, consumed faster. Life despaired faster; eventually, all evidence of his presence was gone,” Death replied.

“Until you,” he whispered. “You are a new spark. A new outlook; a new hope for this gray land. Will you be the guiding hand they need, to show them how to live again?”

“I can try,” she says. “What do I need to do? They don’t like me much. I get told I’m too much, too loud, too talkative and bright.”

“Exactly that,” Death replies, “exactly that. You need only continue to be yourself, to be loud, and bright, and too much. Eventually you will break through the gray. Eventually they will wake up and look around at what their selfish focus has wrought. And they will see that there are textures to the leaves. That there are  subtle shades to the petals of flowers. And that the sky is a little brighter, each and every day they look for the sun.”