Day in, day out, she walks through her life looking for those moments where she can feel alive again. Her world seems sparse and unforgiving. There are no colorful treks, no lasting impressions of the world around her. There is only the perceived gray cloud around all, a soft blur reminding her of how her life had become so little of what it had been.
On her walk back home, she stops at the small garden in the center of the park. She reaches down to a planter filled with flowers, trying to gently savor the intimate feel of the petals. She knows they are white and purple. She knows they feel slightly rough, yet soft. But her heart tells her they are gray, and feel only like any other flower. She stands back up, rubbing her fingers together to release any pollen she picked up. Then she simply walks away, head down and knowing that no one, not even herself, can save her.
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