As readers, we thrive off of a morally grey character. In their flaws we see our own, and therefore feel known. It’s a beautiful thing when you can form a connection with them, walk through worlds with them. Stop and analyze their hazel eyes where you’ll notice a familiar glow. The love felt for a morally grey character isn’t because of their faults, and it isn’t despite of them either. A character’s poor decision is followed with watchful eyes. Eyes that resemble our own. Eyes that follow the page the way a mother watches a child. Watching every trip and every triumph.
The love for a morally grey character is felt because you can’t paint skies of grey with nothing but white paint. A flooded brush of white will only ever bring white. It’s when you begin mixing paints that you start forming shapes. How beautiful a foggy day, and the depth it creates. Why then, shouldn’t we love ourselves in the same way? It is not because of my best qualities or achievements that I love myself, nor for my mistakes. Without the bold slashes of charcoal and specks of gold, without the smudges of green under a clouding bronze, these eyes wouldn’t be hazel, and they wouldn’t be mine. I love myself as I am, a beautiful and messy combination of my merits and my flaws- because I am grey.