BLACK

 

It is if every day, fifty to one hundred strands on my head turn white.

Every day.

Every single day.

And though it may be nothing more than an over active imagination of what my eyes truly reveal, the reality of what was black is no more.

So why not name this post "GRAY" or "WHITE?"

Because BLACK is the origin. 

Black is the state in which it all began. 

And so it is.

I accept the reality.  I also deeply miss the melanin that painted me a different picture from yesterday.

I have gone into miniature crisis in my 40's and now in my 50's I accept it.

I accept it.

It doesn't mean that I like it. 

It doesn't mean that I embrace it.

It means I accept it.