Is blue.

We like to believe there’s more out there. We do. And you know what I mean when I say out there. The great unknown that hangs above us all, stretching out, endless, unimaginable, limitless. Whether you’re a believer of a religion, an avid aliens-are-out-there type, or the kind who relies on the universe to provide.

We all need something. Something.

Some. Thing.

It’s that hope, that fighting spirit in us all, that there’s a reason to go on. Because why would we, why would any of us, continue with the day-to-day-to-never-ever-ever-ending-day, if there was nothing else after it all?

Because those statuses and salaries, they can’t come with us in the end, right?

I’ve never believed in a god.

There’s too much in the world that happens every day for me to justify a belief in a higher all-powerful being. How could a god create us, and watch as we live with this crippling, defeating, devasting, self-loathing. To wish yourself dead is an awful emotion. I wouldn’t want this for anyone. To know that the beings you created carry this cruel disgust of the self, what kind of all-powerful being are you?

I don’t ridicule those that do, as I say, we all need something.

But I do have…longings.

That there is something out there.

A friend of a friend of a friend is a psychic. Yes, roll your eyes. Titter with judgement. Close this page, move onto something brighter and less wordy. Ridicule aside, I listened to her.

And she…she knew me.

You know when you just connect with someone, and it’s like a tiny spark erupts, and you can’t beleive you went your whole life not knowing that person, but you know them now, and every moment in your life was leading you there? It was like that.

She knew the sadness that consumes my every waking moment. The sadness that pulls at my lips, that sits heavy in my chest, that suppresses hunger, that washes over my eyes. The sadness that whispers oh-so-smoothly – because it’s sneaky is sadness, and it licks at you over and over until it has you where it wants you – to just jump, fly, fall, drink, drown, cut, sleep. Sadness is not like misery, who loves company. Sadness likes solitude and silence, when its’ whispers grow louder and ever more tempting.

That in itself stunned me. Because if there’s one thing I am, that is a damn good actor.

I’ve very good at faking normalcy. You’d pass me in the street, sit opposite me on a tram, and never know. Oh, I am very good at smiling empty smiles and replying with the socially acceptable fine thanks and you? when asked, because it’s just a formality and no one ever really cares. Society does not like to face those it fails.

But what she said next, it resonated with me. And still does as I type this.

She said the reason for it all, the confusion, the desperation, the almost-but-not-quite succeeding, and the longing, because oh god the longing just kills me, well, the reason for it all is…I’m not…from…here.

I’m not from here.

I am a spirit, lost. Not meant for Earth, and humanity, and educational tests and commutes and suits and watercooler-talk.

I am a mistake.

Now, mistakes aren’t always bad.

But where do I belong? I thought.

Blue. Was her answer. Your home is blue.

And it made so much fucking sense because it’s what I see when I close my eyes, what I think of when it all gets too much, what I want more than anything in the world – even more than a job and a purpose and a sense of contentness to just calm this raging inside.

A blue home, somewhere far away from here, where it’s quiet but not silent, where a grind doesn’t exist, where society builds us up instead of crushing us down into obedient cubes to fit into a brick wall. A blue home, where the sky at night is so clear I can see the stars, and the stars listen to our wishes and sing back to us. Blue is beautiful. A blue home where hope brings joy.

Because hope, oh hope is a bastard, it is.

Hope dares us to dream of more, of better, of meaning, and it puts it all right before our fingertips then snatches it away, laughing. Hope is not blue.

Misery loves company, yes, but hope relishes in sadness.

Perhaps all of it was just nonsense. Rambles. Tangents. Those sweet nothings we love to hear. To put it in layman’s, she was full of shit. If I was you, reading this, that’s what I’d be thinking.

But she gave me something. She gave me Something-with-a-capital-S. That Something To Cling On To.

You may find yours in god, in churches and mosques and synagogues. You may find yours in overtime and promotions and big houses and fast cars. You may find yours in conspiracy theories or left-right-centre-wing politics or social media validation or LinkedIn requests.

Me, I found mine in a tall and slender woman, with a wonky smile, who looked at me and said you don’t belong, but in a way that comforted and acknowledged what I’d been feeling all this time.

And if that’s not Something. Then what is?

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