Grey. Everything is grey. I don't mean literally. It's kind of like all the colour just faded... into grey. Life is the same for me, a boring routine. Same old, same old. I keep on losing track of time. Sometimes hours would flash by. Others, it was if time refused to move. I open my eyes groggily. What day was it anymore? I don't know. Wearing the same outfit I wore yesterday, freshly washed, I stumbled downstairs. Everything was neat and tidy. My house was large, and the inside look as if it had come straight off a designer house magazine. It's cold. No hint of anyone living inside. No pictures of my childhood, which I barely remember, no pictures of my family. It's empty. There was no feel of a homeliness to it, no feel of warmth. I'm cold. I feel warm to the touch, but something about me is cold and it makes the rest of me cold as well. I'm lonely. I can't remember the last time I actually had a full on conversation with another person. The large clock on the wall slowly ticked away the time, tick, tick, tick. My hands... were those my hands? They felt like they belonged to someone else, someone other than me. I pulled out my phone. Saturday, 12th January 8:47am You have no new notifications. It was an old version iPhone that i found dumped somewhere in the house. It flowed at first, pulsating with colour, with some sort of life. As soon as I had swiped the screen, it turned back to grey. It looked new, fresh bought. Empty. Like me. I gave up on eating breakfast. It was no use. I walked over to the library. Where a whole new world of colour awaited me. You could say it was the only thing I enjoyed. It was, however, the only thing I perceived in such a vivid colour. While everything else was bleached out by the streaks of grey, only this remained. And I would try to spend as much time here as possible. Reading. The books amazed me at first, my imagination slowly grinding into gear and taking me far away, leaving my dull self behind. Heros and their daring adventures. Witty remarks and mysterious deaths. Crime scenes and the olden days of London, a afternoon well spent in the depths of 221B Baker Street. The dizzying feeling of first love, and the fading embers of a dying love. Passionate souls linked together in more than one way. Promised a happily ever after, even if they know it can't last. Humour that brings a smile to my lips, a bright vivid shade. Like sunshine, daisies and buttercup, I floated freely with it. Chilling tales told by a old man with a crackly voice by the fireplace on a cold winters night, children huddled close. Fear, a delicate little thing. Used so differently. The fear that propels us to actually do something, and the fear that locks your muscles together, that make your teeth chatter and your bones shake. Daring, futuristic tales full of hope and war, showing the worst side of humanity and the best. Strong men and women rising up in a rebellion, fighting for their lives and their love. Breakthroughs in science, mankind's brainchild that spins off into billions of different endings. Sorrow that clenches your heart and squeezes, that makes you use an entire box of tissues and stains your shirt. Endless pain that lessens as time passes on, but never entirely disappears. The millions of worlds right at my fingertips, every swish of a page, with me wrapped tightly in a blanket cradling a cup of something hot, the familiar and comforting smell of books enveloping me. A little nook in the corner was where I preferred. Hidden in the deepest end of the library, past tens of dozens of shelves full of dusty books, and past the darkest corners, into a little corner ledge a bit higher than the norm; a ladder was required to reach it. There, I would spend my days, lost, until I was thrown out of the library back into the grey days of my normal life.