Every since I was old enough to start contemplating the world around me, I began to realize that it’s complicated. Our world, our lives, are complex. There is more to them than right or wrong, good or bad, light or heavy, bright or dark, black or white. There are a lot of shades of gray.
I’ve also seen that there are segments of our society — especially when it comes to politics and religion — which do see things strictly in black and white. You are either 100% with them or you are 100% against them. There is nothing in between. There are no shades of gray. There’s only black or white. If you don’t share their ideology or their beliefs, you are “the other,” which means you are their enemy. There is no room for negotiation, no room for compromise.
And I think this is very unfortunate. This view of seeing everything in either black or white and not being willing to recognize and accept all of the gray areas in between is destroying societies around the world by forcing people to choose between the extremes.
And that is not sustainable.
Written for Linda G. Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt. Linda has given us the words “black,” “gray,” and “white,” and asked us to use one, two, or all of them in our posts.
Before I met her, my world was dull, all black and white and shades of gray.
When she came into my life, she brought to me the full spectrum of colors, like a rainbow.
Now she’s gone, leaving me alone and the only color I see anymore is blue.
Written for Sonya’s Three Line Tales. Photo credit: Tony Ross via Unsplash.
I was born with a full head of dark, curly hair.
In my first decade, my hair grew fast and my mother used to cut my hair with a bowl on my head.
In my second decade, my favored haircuts were crewcuts and flattops.
In my third decade, I was a hippie, grew my hair long, and let my freak flag fly.
In my fourth decade, my thick, wavy hair started to thin out and my forehead got larger.
In my fifth decade, my hair started to turn gray.
In my sixth decade, my combover was suspect.
In my seventh decade, I gave up and started shaving my head.
Note: None of these photos, except the one below, is of the real Fandango.
“Your undershirts are getting a bit dingy,” my wife said.
“So what?” I asked. “They’re undershirts, for crissake. I wear them under my shirts. Nobody sees them.”
“I see them every time I do a wash and they’re really gray,” my wife said. “And for your information, people can see your undershirt collars when you’re wearing button-front sport shirts. Your collars are dingy gray.”
“Whatever,” I said. “I don’t need to spend the money on new undershirts. And nobody is going to be grossed out from a peekaboo view of dingy undershirt collars.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say,” my wife said, “so I bought you some new undershirts and I want you to see something.” She grabbed my hand and led me to the bedroom, where she had one of my old undershirts laid out next to one of the new ones she just bought.“Okay, I see what you mean,” I said, knowing that further resistance was futile.
I should have known better than to ask you to marry me on that cold, gray, and rainy day.
You said that I was a nice guy, that you really liked me, and that the sex was great.
But you said that you didn’t love me and that I wasn’t “the one.”
Then you looked at me with pity in your eyes and said, “Babe, it’s not you, it’s me.”
You plunged a dagger into my heart on that cold, gray, and rainy day.
Written for the In Other Words prompt from Patricia’s Place. The challenge this week is to write a story or poem of five lines or fewer using the picture above and/or the words “rainy day.”