Grey Street

That kind of black mood in which everything is grey spiked with violent flashes of the violet part at the heart of a flame. Where everything is frenetic. Work and people. Friends and family. Trips to large chain book-stores where you can lose yourself amongst lots of non- readers and the other-world you carelessly picked out. Where you find yourself unable to get high, in any way, and as a result you try to overdo it till someone says something and you wake up with a sharp jerk. It's that kind of mood where you have to clench your fists to prevent yourself from showing people the finger, just cuz you felt like it. Where you carefully make incisions with your tongue and scratch away at the cotton-wool in which you've wrapped people over the years.
Where music seems repetetive, movies require too much effort and long phone calls replete with giggling sexual innuendoes and snarky digs don't make you feel all special anymore.
You came back looking for magic, expecting Carribean background music and product endorsement type snaps. You found that you fit in like a glove and that you'd already forgotten what it felt like to be in charge of yourself within a week, that responsibility had flown out the window and evidently so had contentment. You discovered that things Don't just magically happen and that while you Are important, you're much more important when you're unnattainable. Or on the flipside, If only you had been more available. You reached out for gratification and brushed against the veil.
Sandcastles are beautiful  because they glisten against the rays of your imagination. Hold them too close, and they crumble to dust.