White

Hey dear life, 

I hope you are still here. As I write this plea to you, I hope you are here silently listening to me and cheering me on from inside these walls which I constantly find myself staring at. These white walls, the white curtains, the white rhetoric, I can only assume this whiteness to be a witness to my melancholy. I know I know melancholy is supposed to be blue, but hey, for once, let me define the ghost in my mind with arbitrary feelings. For once, let me see the darkness in this white that deliberately amuses the core of my being because it sucks up the entirety of me in its existence. 

There was once a friend I knew. A happy friend. I remember smiling at her before parting ways with her that Saturday as I rode the bicycle, and she left off in this myriad of diabolical void. She rushed off into it, and was smiling, waving at me. I couldn’t wave back because I was too stunned to see the reality of that mirage slowly coming into place. The waves crashing at the seashore spoke of a goodbye, there was a tide which took away the remaining seashells, and there was a sunset which sunk into the sea as I watched her go. I found myself holding her hand, I found myself crying towards that desolate void to spare her, but she was happy to go in – she didn’t want to listen to the waves anymore; she didn’t want to look at the light anymore. This was easy; this was liberating, and I stood adrift, a moronic figure in the nowhere with a bicycle with cars honking at me. She was gone, the sun had set, a new surge of waves began, and all I had were her memories. I hate myself for letting her go, but I hate her even more because she was so happy. She left me nothing. I stare at the walls in hope she ever decides to come back. She loved the color white. 

Oh dear life, I want you to know how beautifully crafted this friend of mine was!

This whiteness which feels like a cascade of nothingness, a search for meaning in dread and a search for sanity in problematic prologues, I can never be eluded from my conscience to believe that I can somehow be a human anymore. I am a grotesque blob of sadness who exudes voices and thinks of mere episodes of epiphanies which happen ever so rarely. How can I write a story when my friend took away my liberty to write? You see, in those comforting fumes of sickness I breathe every day, I hope for hopelessness: it’s a heavy feeling I do not have the ability to endure. And these walls which surround me, these white walls which speak to me in methodical silence, which echo the silences of my soul, I never knew one could hear silence until they decided to scream at me in horror. Somewhere within them, the whiteness is vanishing. But alas, the landlord decided to paint them back today!


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