She was born in May, and so she was named, and so she became. Draped in flowers, sun shining from her eyes, goddess in grey reality. She did not care that we were not like her, did not glance twice at our sunken faces or drab monochrome suits.

As for me, I could only aspire, and yet, one day, I found myself angry at my dearest May. She was too perfect: too bright, too clean, too beautiful, too green. Why couldn’t I be her?

“Why must you be you?” I whisper through clenched teeth. “You can not drift through life as such.”
“Why ever not?” She beamed.
“This is not right. You are not right. You need to come down, get a job, get a life.”
“Hmm,” she pondered, closing her eyes. “That’s an interesting notion in itself.”
I frowned, tilting my head ever so slightly.
“Why should I conform as you wish me to? Is that the only reality available? Why can I not live my own way?” She looked at me, eyes a brilliant light. “I reject your reality. This is my reality.”
And so she forever left me in my greyness.