(no subject)
I sit in my room, track number 6 on repeat on my stereo. The song becomes routine, becomes my silence. I forget it’s playing - that’s how long I’ve had it on repeat. I couldn’t describe this song or sing it to you, it’s just there. It’s always playing. Even after my mother comes in at 4:30 AM and turns it off while I lay sleeping under my covers, the song still plays.
People change so much. You lose them to one thing or another - drugs, members of the opposite sex, members of the same sex. Something. It’s almost guaranteed that the people you know today will not be the same a year from now, hell, a month from now. People can’t stand routine.
My yellow walls become less colored the longer I stare at them. Yellow turns into absence - absence of color, of help, of love. White becomes a brilliant shade of beauty, a dazzling display of color. Yellow is boring, routine. People can’t stand routine.
Yellow watches as I destroy. Hands on shelves, a quick sweep, and nothing’s left. Books hit the ground and fall open, their spines groaning in protest. A bottle collection falls and shatters, the light reflecting off the fragments and creating patterns on my bland, yellow walls. I am cut on my hand and red seems like a miracle, a savior in this room of yellow and song.
A voice asks what just fell, if I am ok. The shards of glass crunch under my feet, and more red pours out. The miracle is refreshed, the savior reborn. Red on wood and glass imbedded. I yell back to God that I am fine, he needn’t worry, and my mother yells back up the stairs and scolds me for mocking religion.
What’s the point of upholding morals if no one else does? Should one continue to strive for purity when the choices du jour are corruption or destruction? Purity is conceit. Conceit is corruption. Corruption is destruction. A song can only play for so long until it becomes silence, routine. Yellow can only go so long until it becomes absence. People can’t stand routine.
I should clean up.