Humility Under Him

Your thoughts must be silenced.

Everything is gray.

The leaves that fall to the ground are gray, the rivers that chug under bridges are gray, the tulips that sway in the fields are gray. There’s no music here. The birds don’t chirp and twitter, the rivers don’t rush and gurgle, the leaves don’t even crunch when you step on them. No one whistles a tune because there are no tunes to whistle - the notes were erased alongside the last of the joy. Instead we walk the gray sidewalks with our gray hands in our gray pockets, mumbling a “May you stay humble” in greeting to passersby. That’s the point of all this, isn’t it? God said that we must be humble and if our glorious leaders hadn’t taken Him at His word perhaps we wouldn’t be so efficiently functional. I’m tired of being functional. Tired of the gray kettle on the gray stove, making gray tea that tastes like nothing. Tired of the gray rectangle on the gray floor that seems to grow harder and less comfortable when I sleep. Even so, I’m not allowed to be tired because to be tired is to be selfish and to be selfish is to be far from humble. I pray for those who are far from humble; they don’t roam alongside us anymore, not since they were Removed. It was for the better, I suppose, all of this is for the better. The better for who is up for debate, though not for me to debate, with my meager, gray mind and foolish, gray thoughts. Instead, I place a gray sandwich onto the gray table for my gray children, who eat in silence, but only after thanking the Lord and His Interpreters who have led us to this ideal of functionality. We gather around the table, consuming tasteless food in silence because to talk could be to brag and to brag would be far from humble and to be far from humble is to be Removed. We’re not sure where the Removed go, so we assume they’re dead because they’re never seen or spoken of again. Even with their lack of existence, to be Removed brings shame upon the family of the Removed, and even more so on the community. How could we be so far from humble that we let one of our own comrades fall from His graces and into ego? That word is said like a curse around here. Ego. When whispering about someone, if you dare to accuse them of Ego, you might as well sentence them to be Removed then and there.

I place the gray sandwich in my gray mouth and bite down, chewing and swallowing bread that tastes like air with cheese that tastes like dust. My children sit in silence; even the silence is gray. I glance at the gray clock on the gray wall, eyes flickering to the digital numbers, then back down to my plate. In silence and preparation, I whisk the plates off the table, dropping them into the gray sink. Another minute ticks by. Then, a fist pounds on the door. I don’t flinch, not even a surprised blink, though my children start a bit. They haven’t yet learned what the Midday Check is, haven’t yet learned to not be surprised when the large gray man bursts into our small gray house. I move across the floor, opening the door to welcome him inside, offering a small smile.

“Midday check in, valued community member,” he says gruffly, keeping his eyes focused downwards, so as not to accidentally embody Envy in his stare.

I do the same, nodding in assent, mumbling a greeting and stepping aside. He plods heavily through the house, brushing aside gray carpets with his gray boots, opening gray cabinets with gray hands, searching through gray bookcases of gray books. Household titles such as “Humility: A Guide” and “Do As God Says, Not As You Think” are shaken gently, gray pages fluttering as though they are whispering secrets to him. Not that there are secrets to whisper, of course. My gray children sit rigidly in gray chairs, hands clasped calmly in front of them, the way I instructed them to do. No, I correct myself firmly. The way God told them to. Our leaders tell us that we are to take credit for nothing our children have done, for we have taught them no lessons. That is the job of God, and to take credit would be to undermine the actuality of His teachings. The man completes his search, exiting the house with a nod of approval, closing the gray door gently behind him. I stand in silence for a moment, staring at the door in which he walked through. I almost begin to feel something odd, a creeping feeling, something uncomfortable roiling in my gut. I tamp it down quickly, snapping to attention and looking around the house with a purpose. For all I know, which is not much, that feeling could have been Resentment or even… No. I cannot. The thought is too much to bear.

With precision and practice, I tap my children on the shoulders, pulling their chairs out from the table.

“Good boys. Go to your places, I suspect God has much to tell you tonight.”

They nod solemnly, walking to the three rectangles on the gray floor, drawn out neatly with a darker shade of gray paint. The location of our rectangles were the only customization choice we were given when getting placed into the house; the boys chose to place them near the bookshelf, so that they could read the words of God’s wisdom frequently. I supervise as they lay down, backs against the floorboards, fingers laced together calmly over their stomach, eyes shuttering closed in automatic sleep. The gray curtains flutter around the gray window as wind blows curiously through the small opening I’d left to aerate the house throughout the day. Carefully and quietly, I twist the gray doorknob, sliding with practiced ease out of the small space. I stumble out of the gray door, easing it shut behind myself, turning to face the gray world before me. Gray shoes pad across gray grass as I make my way towards the street, gray stones left unilluminated, save for the gray rays of moonlight scarcely brushing the road. My gray ponytail sways gently, whispering across the back of my gray neck, gray strands catching in the gray threads of my gray t-shirt. I walk along quietly, cautious in my movements, lest someone come out of their front door, questioning why I am out after Lights Out. I’d have no answer to give them, truthfully; nothing that wouldn’t affect me with an accusation of Ego or something of the sort. I enjoy walks like this; it gives me time to observe my gray life, in my gray town, within a gray city, in a gray land. I ponder and have gray thoughts, though one time, I had a colorful thought. It was bright, warm and enticing, carrying the same twisting gut feeling from earlier today, and it prickled with a sweet tingling sensation along my shoulder blades. The experience was so jarring, however, that I never did it again. After all, colorful thoughts were a symptom of Ego and Ego was far from humble.

I sigh, muffling the sound of exhaustion by sealing my lips together, trailing my finger tips delicately through the gray leaves that hang precariously off of a gray tree. I scrape my feet to an abrupt stop as something unfamiliar breaks through the air. A sound peels apart the quiet that covers the street, worming curiously into my ears. I spin, trying to locate the noise and what it could be, if not someone talking. Even so, it was much too pleasant to be someone talking, something much more cozy and inviting.

I reach out and brush my hand through the gray leaves again, tugging one off of the gray branch. The sound occurs again, settling around my shoulders comfortingly. I stare down at the gray leaf in my gray hand, blinking at it as it sits there unassumingly. Tentatively, with a disbelieving tremor in my fingers, I curl my fingers inwards, forcing the leaf to collapse in on itself. The sound comes again, louder this time, and closer. It’s tingly and pleasant, caressing the back of my neck lightly in a gesture that could be perceived as uncomfortable but is more reassuring than anything. I close my hand more, forcing the leaf to fold in on itself, crushing it and grinding it into my palm. The sound echoes and repeats, sending a satisfied shiver scuttling down my spine. I open my fist, allowing the gray bits of the gray leave to drift to the ground, landing scattered atop the gray roadway. I glance up, eyes darting to observe the surrounding area, just in case anyone witnessed my brief mistake. I bite my lip, brushing my gray hands roughly on my gray pants to clean them, then walk on, moving far from the crumbled leaf bits on the ground behind me. I lower my eyes to the gray ground, focusing gray irises on gray gravel that shifts under my gray shoes.

Then, something far from gray catches my eye. I stutter my gaze, hesitating to look at the thing again, but it tugs at my consciousness, demanding to be seen. With hesitation, and God instructing me to remain humble, I raise my stare off of the ground, letting it slide almost unintentionally towards the thing that is far from gray. I gasp at the sight of it, the simple petals of a once-gray flower standing out in sharp contrast now, thanks to their un-grayness. Without much intent to do so, I step towards the flower - one step, then two, then three, until I’m standing just a breath away from it. The petals are luminous, a color that is soft and bright at the same time, quiet and loud simultaneously. I am entranced instantly, the color sucking me in and refusing to let me go, dissolving the gray directly around it. The color wraps around me, dragging me in closer, whispering things, treacherous things. Its words are sweet and warm, swirling around before my eyes like the gray candies that dissolve on gray tongues once a year as we celebrate the Removal of those who were far from humble. I blink slowly, hesitant to close my eyes for even a moment, just in case the color goes away like some sort of sick joke. It’s still there when I open my eyes, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I hate myself for being relieved.

I tear my eyes away from the flower, focusing my eyes determinedly on the ground, shutting out any more thoughts that are far from humble. I tug my gray sleeves farther down to cover my gray wrists, wrapping gray arms around my gray body. The feeling in my gut dissolves, simmering into subtle disgust, turned inwards at myself. I hear God’s voice ringing out in my head, gentle criticism and scorn underlining His words. A single gray tear rolls down my gray cheek, and I swivel on my heel, walking determinedly back to the house. I force my thoughts to be silent as I walk, and even quieter as I slip back inside the house, for I fear that my gray children may be able to sense the remnants of my colorful thoughts, even as they sleep. Even so, I should be Removed. I want to be Removed, for how could I have a thought so similar to Ego? Or perhaps not similar, but exactly it!

I sit down hard on my gray floor within my gray rectangle, slumping my posture and reaching for a book off of the shelf. I open the gray pages, removing a gray blade from within. With a trembling, yet truly humble hand, I slide the blade repeatedly across my gray thigh, cutting through my gray pants and gray skin. I slice again and again, allowing gray blood to seep out of my gray veins and onto the gray floor. I must be humble, I repeat in my head, hissing the order harshly. God agrees, encouraging me to slide the blade faster, harder, more viciously. As I deserve; seeing color was far from humble, having colorful thoughts was far from humble, sneaking out after Lights Out was far from humble. I am far from humble. And I deserve to die.

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