Another night with no objective. Another night with nothing, not even sleep on my mind. On this very familiar night I gazed upon the flawlessly white-painted ceiling of my room. "Another unfamiliar ceiling" I thought. I hadn't the faintest idea where my bleached white blanket had gone, though I hadn't the faintest interest in it either. My focus was always on the ceiling. I had prohibited the raucous fireworks from reaching my ears at this point. The sheer simplicity of this ceiling had me both in admiration and in a state of raging envy all at once. Not a single insect dared to defy this ceiling. Not a single object dared to set itself on this ceiling. It was plain, yet appreciated and wanted by all. It was a non negotiable necessity yet left alone uncontaminated.
In the room next door (in which I had previously inhabited) is an extremely insightful ceiling. It is painted a dark brown with a black-tinted bulb as I remember. Ugly pictures are pinned onto it, insects can be seen roaming the walls, infesting them. It is painted terribly. Covered in bumps, blank spaces and what seems to be scratch marks. It is extremely ugly and hard to look at. I pity whoever is forced to look upon it. Visitors and those who inhabit this place alike tend to steer clear from this room, fearing the pitiful sight of the ceiling. Whenever one has to enter, it is evident they look down. While they do not speak of it while in the room, whenever they leave, I can always hear their cruel words towards it. I almost feel bad, then I come back to the realisation that it is a ceiling. It is void of any sense of self or emotion. It is nothing but a spectacle to sneer at and use as an interesting story to return home with. The others clearly know that too. So why do they wait until they leave? Why not share their horrifying words while inside? Though I do realise that I am hypocritical myself as I also view it as possibly the ugliest thing I have placed my gaze onto. Which is why I am currently here, staring at this idealistic ceiling with great admiration while realising a certain dripping sound.
Drip, drip, drip. The lonely sounds fall on my ears in the early hours of the morning. Imagery is formed in my mind of the faucet echoing. The repetition of this dripping reverberates over and over again, seeming like an endless spiral. I am isolated as everyone around me is alone with their minds, alone in a deep sleep. Dripping and dripping up until the world goes eerily silent, my mind the only consciousness left in this world. By this time I would be either two things, the first is asleep. My mind falls into an abysmal isolation and assembles the memories of mine into a nonsensical dream. My abilities to differentiate falsity from reality, stolen from me in a fraction of a second. What my mind chooses for me to believe, I believe. I am stripped from any access to my body or to leave this state of mind. I am unable to move, defend myself from certain danger, nor regain the memories of my life. I am alone, once again.
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