We live in grey towns, filled with grey concrete, covered by grey clouds that prevent us from being stimulated by the sun. We work grey jobs, led by grey bosses, producing grey products that prevent us from being stimulated by nature. We eat grey food. We sing grey songs. We are led by old, grey fools. We are a race slowly morphing into a grey piece of leather.
We are force-fed grey.
Even my hair is turning grey. It's almost like a warning.
Am I really growing old? Is the world rubbing off on my head? What happened to the animal I used to be? Has my hair betrayed my youth? Are these grey roots guiding me back to yesteryear and my primitive form?
Some things we cannot change. We can't change the past. We can't change years of unrest that lead to my aging skulls demise. We can't change a bad back. We can't change webbed feet, unless we are prepared for a few minor surgeries. There goes my co-pay.
We can learn to live with the grey. We can accept the calloused feeling of circling the drain. We can loom inside the clockwork and blend into the paste.
We can rip off our shirts and die like men. We can pound our chests and cat call angels in the sky. We can stare into the ether and release the thunder in our hearts. Shouting back at God, demanding for these drab clouds to clear. We can pluck the fearsome Jehovah from his chair and shake fear into his trembling spine. We can piss at the alter and paint the world red with the blood of the valkeries....Bah!!! Fearsome Jehovah!!!
Or, I can just shave my head.