Everything’s great until you get bored. Boredom leads to bad places. Boredom leads to unnecessary anger. Boredom leads to disappointment. Boredom leads to unconfessed feelings and regret. Boredom leads to drugs. Boredom leads to tears. Boredom leads to love – love that shouldn’t be there, dangerous love. Boredom leads to sex – sex that shouldn’t happen, dangerous, dangerous sex. Boredom leads to the world crashing down around you. Boredom makes you think. Sometimes I don’t want to think.
When I woke up, the world was inverted. My red walls had turned green and my white ceiling black.
I saw someone new in the bathroom mirror. His skin was blue, as if he had been beaten all over. His hair was a strange, sickly grey. I realized after a few moments that it was me.
The grass outside was neon purple, the sun a giant blacklight.
I went through my day as normal. I thought that something would be done. Perhaps the government would step in, or a scientific committee would discover the cause and announce it to the world. No announcement came. No statement was made.
I walked around the city after work looking for familiar faces, but all the people just blended together, an endless sea of unnatural blue.
I looked up into the white night. The black stars twinkled like carpenter ants crawling across the sky.
Rhythmic pounding.
Feedback. A jet engine kicking into gear. The sound of a man giving up.
Rhythmic pounding.
The artist, creating a self portrait. Sketching. Drawing. Painting. Sculpting. Destroying.
Rhythmic pounding.
This is about something. This means something. Birds chirping. Who knows what that is.
Rhythmic pounding.
Echos that aren’t echos, reverb that isn’t. Baritone. For so long. For so long.
Rhythmic pounding.
Soaring. Soaring. Soaring. Soaring. Emotion.
Rhythmic pounding.
The realism comes to an end and the world begins.
Rhythmic pounding.
A face, crying out with its mouth closed and there’s no noise. And then there’s nothing at all.
