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In living color

It's laundry day chez DarkEm, and after stripping my bed to wash the (dark gray) sheets, I turned around and saw this little tableau.

Piles of bedding, some sweaters, boxes, and furniture, all in shades of black, white and gray

All that's missing is the aptly-named Graydie the cat, and my black Dutch bike.

Some external-feeling voice in my head tells me that I should try to be more colorful, that an interior scheme that looks almost identical whether photographed in black and white or in color, placed in a city that is often the same way, is somehow poor-spirited.

If you'd asked me a year ago, I'd have guessed that the kind of healing I've undergone just lately--in which decades of burdensome beliefs have been dissolved--would have resulted in a desire for more color; in fuchsia walls and Caucasian rugs.

But I really like these non-colors. Black and white feels crisp and clean. Gray feels calm...

...I kind of like the Caucasian rug idea, though.

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