sueded grey M239

Cloudy-skied mornings. The ones where I stared out the window at six-thirty in the morning and wondered if I’d need to take a jacket to school. And I took just a minute too long to get dressed and put my hair up and pack my bag and my parents yelled for me to come downstairs for breakfast. And they’d threaten that I’d be late for school if I didn’t eat at the speed of light, and by the time I left for school the cloudy sky has lightened just a bit – teasing either bright sunny skies or rain. It reminds me of all the nights I used to sneak out the back door of my house and return when the sky began to lighten – I would walk up the street anxious to return to my bed, the cloudy morning signifying an end to rambunctious antics and back to the real-world. I have much appreciation for those dull, brightening dawns. It reminds me that I have awoken to yet another day or returned safely from wherever the night took me. And the crows would caw their morning affirmations, and the smell of coffee was stapled to the walls of the kitchen, and those cloudy-skied mornings bring memories on both ends of the spectrum of my emotions. And I love them all the same.

Sophistication. Gray suits, gray ties. Gray pencil skirts, gray button-down tops, gray pumps. Boring attire. Skyscrapers and business logos all competing for a more modern look – fleeting tones of gray and white fading out what used to be bright and colorful and welcoming. My mother has always told me I am not a classy woman. And she means it with all the disrespect. She finds my tattoos and piercings and dyed hair and sharp nails that matched my sharp attitude a thing of pure horror – she could not imagine such a girl in the corporate world. But it makes me laugh to remember the day I did get a corporate job in the summer. Dress pants, a blazer, small, heeled sandals. I killed that interview, I charmed my way through aggravating questions and an itching sensation because my jacket suddenly felt too tight, and I treated myself to a smoothie afterwards because it did not matter if I got the job or not, what did matter is that I was proud of myself, and I did the damn thing. I looked so smart, I felt so confident, and I when I came home my mother had told me I looked professional. But those words felt foreign after so many months of being told – laughed at, really – that a classy and sophisticated look was not mine to have or that an important desk-job was not my kind of lifestyle. Little does she seem to know, those dull pencil skirts and itchy blazers and button-down tops cover my tattoos just fine. Do they cover the attitude? Not so much, but I think that’s what gets the work done…

Barbed wire. Quite an opposite from sophistication wouldn’t you say? I think anyone reading this might be confused as to how such a serene and pale color could account for barbed wire. Part of it was thinking about gray items, the other part was remembering the glint each little barb had at the sharpest point. A sueded gray tip beckoning me, wanting to see what I was made of. It reminded me of my high school days where rebellion was a popular appeal. When my friends and I clambered delicately over chain-link fences, aggressively decorated with the sharp wires. It’s funny because barbed wire has such a keep out message, but is draped in such an inviting challenge – staring up at the curling wire thinking it can’t be that hard to get over, right? I can attest to my memories that it is in fact, rather difficult. Especially if you go into it thinking you won’t touch it at all. It’ll humble you in that sense. And even more so when you’re running from flashing red and blue lights: heart pounding, lungs aching, adrenaline catapulting us back over the wire but this time with less careful movements – we paid no mind to the tears in our clothing or single droplets of blood congregating on the skin that were evidence of hasty movements as we clawed our way to the other side of the chain-link away from glinting badges and elevated authoritative voices. Scars on my hands are telltale signs of those antics from years ago.

Dapple-grey horses. A color all equestrians envied, but none seemed to really want. There’s a perk to dapple greys – they stand out against a see of bay and black. A gleaming star against a black blanket of space. It’s quite nice to have all eyes on you when you’re competing, but it makes it that much more nerve-wracking should a mistake be made. When it rained – oh, my when it rained…nothing would bring that audacious gelding inside. He would prance into the puddles, roll in the mud, throw his head back with a spirited snort, like he was telling me you’re going to have to clean me later for hours and hours and hours and after that I still won’t be gray, and I’ll laugh while you curse at me because I know I’m still getting treats later. How I do miss the dreadful early mornings and aching muscles from falls or wrestling with the mouth of an angsty colt. But the blue ribbons made it all worth it. What a beautiful color that blue was, shining against his coat. Matched that of my eyes that swelled with appreciation. Matched with the bright shirt my dad always wore so that I could spot him in the spectating audience if I took my focus away for only half a second to look. It stood out against the dapple-grey of Nado’s rippling coat, and the black leather of the reins, and it became something like a charm that we were so eager to pose with. The pain of leaving behind a hobby or a sport that you’re incredibly good at is one I would not wish on anyone. I saw so many others advancing to levels I knew I could have achieved just as easily, but I lost everything. I lost the horse, I lost the drive, I lost the passion. I lost the one thing grounding me from ending up in the deep end and drowning. Some love the sport simply for the passion of horses, other love it because it’s a wealthy business – they don’t call it the sport of kings for nothing. I always look back and wish I had never been a victim of that side of the industry. But here I am…here I am.

Sueded grey is neither dark enough to be black, nor light enough to be considered white. A color with both positive and negative memories braided into the palette. A lonely color – the only one quite like itself. And that could be perilous: loneliness without an outlet is a dangerous thing. Peace makes itself scarce as too many thoughts intrude and there is no entertainment, no distraction from the reality of life. Is that what this color has become? A distraction? Pulling out memories from the deepest parts of my brain where gray was a prominent feature, and projecting them into this lonesome space? No, I think it is more of a healing thing. An interrogation with myself, dissecting my experiences. A color with both positive and negative memories braided into the palette. That’s all this has become.