Eclipse,
No!—I am not dead. Sick, perhaps—someone did mention that, but dead, oh I am far from it. True, I am sick—sick of the ringing silence engulfing my entire being in my pristine white room as the man in white with pity dripping down his glass-like eyes leaves. White—the color is sickening. White is for the dead and I am not dead, no, I am not dead—just sick. I am sick of seeing white everywhere I look. The walls, the ceiling, the floor, the bed, the clothes, the food, the mirror, the clock—so white. I am sick of it.
The white clock on the white wall reads 12:01 AM.
As the man in white closes the doors, darkness spills inside, wrapping me in unbearable stillness—as if the world has finally stopped moving. As if the night has finally inundated every corner of the universe. Finally—another color aside from the glaring white. A hint of a smile creeps up my dry mouth as the first tickles of laughter erupt through my entire body.
I have always wanted to become a painter—an artist even better than Van Gogh or Monet. I know that I can transform these plain white walls into something more beautiful than The Starry Night. The paint that I will use will be even more magnificent than the highest quality paint from the best shop in the entire universe. This will show those men in white how sick I am of the color. White—I can feel my blood boil just thinking about it.
And so, the very next day, I ask for paint.
My cheeks hurt from smiling the entire day as I buzz from excitement. It is now—today is finally the day I show them that I am not sick. Sick people do not go around painting—for the smell of paint can cause sickness and dizziness and should not be around sick people. But there they are—the unopened cans of paint sitting just by the foot of my bed, glistening beautifully amidst the sickening plainness of the white room.
There is a paint can opener and some brushes on top of the cans, which I toss aside easily because they say the best artists use themselves as the medium for conveying the art. My wide smile and laughter never falter even as sharp pain shoots up both my arms when I attempt to open the cans using my fingers and accidentally wound myself from the sharp metal. It does not matter though—the cans are open, and it is time to start on my masterpiece—my magnum opus—my chef-d’oeuvre. Red, of course! Red is anything but sickening, red is intense. People associate red with energy, life. Yes, red is the color to show everyone that I am anything but dead. Red is perfect—red, is not white.
As I admire the swirling red liquid inside the cans, I notice tears dripping down the sides of my face. No, tears are ugly and are for sick people. Tears are not meant for great artists such as I. And so, I dip my bloody fingers inside the can and paint my tears red. I look at the mirror and see an image of an artist with red tears streaming down their cheeks and smile. Perfect—this is perfect. I paint the mirror red too; so that it will no longer reflect the ugly white color. Sounds of my delighted laughter bounce around the room—like a kid’s at the park—as I continue painting my room red. Painting gives me so much joy—painting makes me feel alive.
I run around the room, painting all of its four walls. I even dip my blankets, bedsheets, pillows, and clothes in red paint so that they will match the red color of the walls. I use my newly painted bed to reach the ceiling to give more life to its once-purely white look. I carefully paint the lights too, to cast a reddish hue to the room—to make it feel more alive and perhaps like a club where healthy people go and mingle—instead of the pristine white usually reserved for hospitals where sickness lingers in every corner. I dance around the room, absolutely delighted with my ongoing work. I twirl and laugh as I splatter paint on every white surface that I lay my eyes on.
All that is left to paint is the floor. The cans are almost empty and there is a smell of rusted iron lingering in the air. I am tired, my chest hurts a bit but that is probably from all the painting that I have done today, I feel as if my energy has been slowly dwindling as the contents of each paint can become less and less. Glancing at what remains in the can, with my artistic sense and slight estimation, I figure out that I have just enough energy and paint to write down my signature. Of course, an artist’s pièce de resistance is his signature—how else will the audience know who created the artwork?
After signing, I lie down beside the empty cans of paint sprawled on the floor. A content sigh escapes my lips as I smile at the red ceiling above. I really did well. Not a single speck of white can be seen on the ceiling or walls. Letting exhaustion overtake me, I close my eyes and smile one last time as I feel a drop of paint fall on my cheeks.
I still have not opened my eyes from the moment I woke up. I am practically overflowing with excitement and anticipation to see my finished artwork since I was far too exhausted yesterday to fully soak in my masterpiece. After a few more minutes of imagining what my room looks like, I finally open my eyes and look at the ceiling above me.
Chills go down my entire being. My hands start to shake uncontrollably as I take in the state of my ceiling, walls, bed, clothes, clock, and mirror.
No—I must be dead, yes!
But why—
Why is everything
pristinely,
glaringly,
white
Literary: in articulo mortis
No!—I am not dead. Sick, perhaps—someone did mention that, but dead, oh I am far from it. True, I am sick—sick of the ringing silence engulfing my entire being in my pristine white room as the man in white with pity dripping down his glass-like eyes leaves. White—the color is sickening. White is for the dead and I am not dead, no, I am not dead—just sick. I am sick of seeing white everywhere I look. The walls, the ceiling, the floor, the bed, the clothes, the food, the mirror, the clock—so white. I am sick of it.
The white clock on the white wall reads 12:01 AM.
As the man in white closes the doors, darkness spills inside, wrapping me in unbearable stillness—as if the world has finally stopped moving. As if the night has finally inundated every corner of the universe. Finally—another color aside from the glaring white. A hint of a smile creeps up my dry mouth as the first tickles of laughter erupt through my entire body.
I have always wanted to become a painter—an artist even better than Van Gogh or Monet. I know that I can transform these plain white walls into something more beautiful than The Starry Night. The paint that I will use will be even more magnificent than the highest quality paint from the best shop in the entire universe. This will show those men in white how sick I am of the color. White—I can feel my blood boil just thinking about it.
And so, the very next day, I ask for paint.
My cheeks hurt from smiling the entire day as I buzz from excitement. It is now—today is finally the day I show them that I am not sick. Sick people do not go around painting—for the smell of paint can cause sickness and dizziness and should not be around sick people. But there they are—the unopened cans of paint sitting just by the foot of my bed, glistening beautifully amidst the sickening plainness of the white room.
There is a paint can opener and some brushes on top of the cans, which I toss aside easily because they say the best artists use themselves as the medium for conveying the art. My wide smile and laughter never falter even as sharp pain shoots up both my arms when I attempt to open the cans using my fingers and accidentally wound myself from the sharp metal. It does not matter though—the cans are open, and it is time to start on my masterpiece—my magnum opus—my chef-d’oeuvre. Red, of course! Red is anything but sickening, red is intense. People associate red with energy, life. Yes, red is the color to show everyone that I am anything but dead. Red is perfect—red, is not white.
As I admire the swirling red liquid inside the cans, I notice tears dripping down the sides of my face. No, tears are ugly and are for sick people. Tears are not meant for great artists such as I. And so, I dip my bloody fingers inside the can and paint my tears red. I look at the mirror and see an image of an artist with red tears streaming down their cheeks and smile. Perfect—this is perfect. I paint the mirror red too; so that it will no longer reflect the ugly white color. Sounds of my delighted laughter bounce around the room—like a kid’s at the park—as I continue painting my room red. Painting gives me so much joy—painting makes me feel alive.
I run around the room, painting all of its four walls. I even dip my blankets, bedsheets, pillows, and clothes in red paint so that they will match the red color of the walls. I use my newly painted bed to reach the ceiling to give more life to its once-purely white look. I carefully paint the lights too, to cast a reddish hue to the room—to make it feel more alive and perhaps like a club where healthy people go and mingle—instead of the pristine white usually reserved for hospitals where sickness lingers in every corner. I dance around the room, absolutely delighted with my ongoing work. I twirl and laugh as I splatter paint on every white surface that I lay my eyes on.
All that is left to paint is the floor. The cans are almost empty and there is a smell of rusted iron lingering in the air. I am tired, my chest hurts a bit but that is probably from all the painting that I have done today, I feel as if my energy has been slowly dwindling as the contents of each paint can become less and less. Glancing at what remains in the can, with my artistic sense and slight estimation, I figure out that I have just enough energy and paint to write down my signature. Of course, an artist’s pièce de resistance is his signature—how else will the audience know who created the artwork?
After signing, I lie down beside the empty cans of paint sprawled on the floor. A content sigh escapes my lips as I smile at the red ceiling above. I really did well. Not a single speck of white can be seen on the ceiling or walls. Letting exhaustion overtake me, I close my eyes and smile one last time as I feel a drop of paint fall on my cheeks.
I still have not opened my eyes from the moment I woke up. I am practically overflowing with excitement and anticipation to see my finished artwork since I was far too exhausted yesterday to fully soak in my masterpiece. After a few more minutes of imagining what my room looks like, I finally open my eyes and look at the ceiling above me.
Chills go down my entire being. My hands start to shake uncontrollably as I take in the state of my ceiling, walls, bed, clothes, clock, and mirror.
No—I must be dead, yes!
But why—
Why is everything
pristinely,
glaringly,
white
0 comments: