Outside there's such stillness. The perfect antidote to the chaos inside. Even the breeze seems to know the rules; nothing too bracing, no great gusts to rock the boat. Just enough to provide the gentle rustle of leaves, a momentary second of calming coolness.

Outside the hospital; neat rows of flower beds. A veranda. Benches with plaques to remember those who won their battle. And those who didn't.

One of those near-perfect crisp, sunny October mornings.

And yet somehow everything is not quite the perfect picture postcard it was clearly designed to be. The grass isn't quite as green as it was yesterday. The sun not quite as bright. Nothing is ever black and white, they say. Instead there are a million shades of grey. What they don't add is that grey, no matter what the shade, is still grey. And, at times like this, tired eyes eventually become accustomed to leaden tones muddying the view. Everything always a little tainted. A little dirtied.

What i'd give for a little black and white right now. We knew where we were then. The blackness brought despair, wretchedness, catatonia, sleep. The bright white light studded with mania, laughter, frenetic activity, obsession. Those thick lines of black and white defined her. They were her outline. That's all she was most of the time; an outline. Black. White. Black. White.



Now there is only greyness. A whole palette of shades to play with. Pick one, they tell her. Or pick them all. Mix them. Embrace them. Create new shades of your own. Variety is, after all, the spice of life.

I want to help her. Guide her. But I can't. Because she doesn't know who she's supposed to be.

And neither do I.