Warning: This work has been rated 16+ for violence.
Havent posted anything for a long time...
I am staring out the window at the snow-covered land. White. Everything is white. Yet I don't mind, for some odd reason.
I turn my head back to focus on my white, lined paper. White, white, white. What a strange color, white. It's nothing, absolutely nothing but colorless emptiness, yet at the same time, it is a canvas, full of new beginnings. A canvas so incredibly vast you aren't sure what to think. Is white really all it is? What is white?
The teacher moves her eraser to the whiteboard, brushing it over the words, the dark spots marring the canvas, until they disappear. The board becomes blank again.
I'm not sure why it is, that I only see the white. The white is the most boring, people say. Obvious. I do not see that. I see questions, an endless myriad of questions. White...
I look down at my white yogurt, sitting in front of me on the edge of the table. My ghostly white arm rests on the edge of the table, spoon clasped between white-knuckled fingers. I do not want to move. My head aches, and all I want to do is stare at the whiteness of the table, the yogurt, and my own skin. My mother says something. I do not reply. My brother flicks my ear. I raise my head to focus on the white walls of the kitchen. Pure, undiluted white walls.
The color speaks to me, and I wish I could understand. I wish I could answer the question.
I shove the white sheets away from my freezing, pale form. It is early morning. The window is open, revealing crystalline flakes of white, falling from the sky one by one. Hey cling to every surface they can, blanketing the world with a cover of white. The scene is almost perfect...but...
It is not white enough..
I swing my legs over the edge of the white bed, my feet planting firmly one white carpet as I strech out my muscles. Standing straight, I cross the room to the white door and turn the white handle..
The white yogurt sits on the table in front of me, and the situation could almost be considered deja-vu, if it wasn't routine. I stare down, eyes boring into the cup of plain yogurt, the white shade of it. Everything is white.
I take a swig of the white milk, sit the white cup back down on the table. The white table cloth shifts as I do so, sliding closer and closer to the white tiled floor.
Nobody else is up at this time, the time when they sky is a very, very pale shade of grey outside, so light it could pass for white. A very unusual sky...white sky... I cannot help but to stare. White sky...
The teacher is lecturing us again, standing in front of the classroom in such a way that all that can be seen of him is his white shirt and greyish white hair. White man, in front of the white walls, and whiteboard. It fascinates me, and I find myself focusing on that single area of the room, right up until the end of class. I turn my attention to my paper. There are words written there, with a white colored pencil, almost invisible to the naked eye. I puzzle over them, trying to make out the white words hidden on the white sheet. What do they say? I do not know.
Nighttime. I find myself immersed in dreams, dreams of white. I am standing in a white room. It is freezing cold. My clothes are white, as is the white bed, the tiled floor, and the single, windowless door. I realize I am unable to move. I lie there, for God knows how long, amidst the mass of whiteness.
Suddenly, my eyes are open. I blink rapidly to try and clear my head but do not succeed. White...it is dark out, but why do I only see white? Everything everything is white!
That's when it dawns on me.
The white has answered my question.
The knife moves back and forth across my arm, and I can feel it, a liquid substance, running over my white skin as the blade digs deeper and deeper. I do not see anything on my body, not a single mark, but I know it is there, it has to be!
And then I see it. A brilliant drop of something so...divine. So unordinary it is almost astounding. What is it? My blood?
No. It is Red.
I am in a white room, surrounded by four white walls based on a white-tiled floor. The air in the room chills me to the bone, but I do not move. I cannot move. All I can do is lie there, and stare at the white...
White is so horribly constricting, is it not?