Some days I wish grey wasn’t a color. Grey is not a very rich color. It is not the rainbow paradox of white and it has none of the delicious darkness of black. But I am inundated with grey. I sit at my wooden desk and stare into the facade of a grey Los Angeles building every day for most of the day.

I’d love to look at something a little more lush, a little more emerald. But most days I write this way, the grey way, because it is the most accessible. Going to a café sounds wonderful and hip and caffeinated but I dread the schlep.

Occasionally I see color. I am transplanted somewhere new and find that I am lucky enough to have the company of another soul. Writing beside another is a new concept for me. For him, too. We first began to write together on a train that was leaving Amsterdam and was headed for Berlin.

I took a picture of him on one of the green days and I am hoping he is not too embarrassed with me.

 

“When I feel that we two meet in a perception, that our two souls are tinged with the same hue, and do as it were run into one, why should I measure degrees of latitude, why should I count Egyptian years?”

-Emerson, taken from the essay “HISTORY,” from The Essential Writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson.

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