Ting. . . Ting. . .the bell beats itself into a ring that no one hears. It’s almost as if the air knows it’s the insignificant calling out of a child’s bicycle, there is nobody paying attention to this here. . .
Green, yellow, warm- dusk has a funny way of moving me. Put that together with the Sunday evening distant but not far-away sounds of the children at play and I am suddenly struck by a feeling of panic. It roots itself in my stomach and seeps into my being like the anxious exhale of a joint that’s promised to be a bad trip.
Old. There is something is about this feeling. It is blue. So gripping in its blue that melancholy changes its colors, green, yellow, warm poured down by a feeling of blue.
Blue was never meant to be a color.
The clothes chuckle in the evening balcony, hanging by the knee of the wall, hiding from the vain society I live in. Somehow the very clothes we all need and wear and must faithfully cover ourselves up in, are too shameful to air out. But who’s listening.
I rebel against the creeping orange, black, grey ghost of a feeling this dusk brings.
Yet another day meeting its maker in a mindless charade we can never truly know the purpose of. The whys, the hows and ultimates of existence all knead my empty stomach into dough and I sense a feeling like I want to vomit the air right out of me.
Yellow. A tiny piece of paper with notes I have folded and folded and kept “safe” a million times before. I cannot crumple it into the fire and I won’t sit down and look at it either.
Dreams. What sodomy imprinted in me this desire for more. Half knowing how well I fool myself, half hating it, I bite down another pep-talk and think about what deception truly means.
I am always better than I am right now, and I am always just as unwilling.
The curtain laughs a hearty one against my window and I think about the glow of this room on the outside.
Warm. Yellow. True.
Someone must wish they lived here.