There are words in my head that felt just as heavy as the humidity on my skin. The post-shower, mesh-filter-over-my-lungs feeling dissipated as soon as the first rain drop hit the ground. Words, however, are still weighing in my head like the streams of water that rid the air of the humidity absorbed into a mental sponge; dense and cold. If I had to write you a letter, what would the intent be? How would it sound? I ponder how we could paint the yellows and blues. If it would be possible to manipulate the monochromes. The gray sky following the rain is reflecting like a blue-gray. Not a cigarette ash gray or the kind of gray newspapers are. That's how I imagined my sky a moment ago. Dark gray and thin. The humidity is gone enough that you could flip the page in the corner. Instead of of black words filling the space, it's white smeared clouds covering the sky like someone smudged them all with their fingers. I've been thinking about that newspaper gray a lot. Printed in fresh black ink was my name, listed under "other" schools. They asked me more times than I could count if I was sure of where I was going.
I confidently said 'yes' every time, until the last. The week that I realized that I thought I wanted what I didn't. And when that newspaper came out, half a page was filled with names I met at age 14 and had come to know better at 16. I looked for yours and couldn't find it. I looked in the spaces and empty lines and not one inch of that did I find you... so I kept going. I vividly see that gray page when I think about it is I want to do. A camera shutter and the words "I'm filming" are too visual and redundant to put into words, but I seem to try anyways. I think about going into psychology or archaeology and the credits I don't have for either of those things. No sort of visions I see in my head translate well to writing. And I suppose some things are meant to be seen, not read; but how do you have a movie without a script? I don't have an answer. So I keep writing hoping to create one. I hope to find you somewhere between these lines, somewhere in an epiphany on paper. Maybe it won't happen, but I still actively search in the thin gray paper and the smudged blue gray sky. Maybe you're hiding in the golden rays of a warm welcomed sunset on summer nights that feel like a breeze crossing a bridge between May and June. And maybe you're something I can't find. Maybe the reveal is up to you.