A white wall stretches out in front of me. It reaches out in both directions as far as I can see. It towers over everything, ominously looking down upon my diminished self. I think I might be able to see the top, but it really could go on for ever and I could just be tricking my mind into seeing the vertical end of the wall.
I need a way to pass to the other side of the barrier. It is an urgent matter, I remember, but the reason now escapes me. The surface of the wall is smooth, unblemished, and flawless. I was hoping to find footholds with which to climb, but there is nothing to be had. The ground too, is impassible, as it is frozen solid into stone. Instead I begin to walk along the wall to the left. The wall cannot possibly go on forever.
The whiteness of the wall continues as far as the wall does. It stays the same untouched colour, never changing and never fading. Soon it begins to blur, creating gray spots in my vision and begins to affect my balance. The white is too repetitive and hypnotizing. I start seeing other colours too now, blues and reds and yellows, all blending together in my vision, coloring the dull world. I know the visions are just in my head, but my mind has become reality.
And the wall continues on.
Showing posts with label symbolism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label symbolism. Show all posts
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Words Near the End
Hopeless
Worthless
Endless
Lifeless
Time
Night
Silence
Truth
Tripping
Falling
Screaming
Dying
Float
Wish
Whisper
Drift
Deep in the abyss
Worthless
Endless
Lifeless
Time
Night
Silence
Truth
Tripping
Falling
Screaming
Dying
Float
Wish
Whisper
Drift
Deep in the abyss
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Paint
We paint our walls to cover up the ugly colours underneath. We paint them to cover up the dirt and imperfections. We cannot replace them easily, so we paint to hide what we wish to replace. In the same way, I believe we paint the old walls which are ourselves.
The dirt we cover up is the filth built up from living in and using the room in our daily lives. It is only natural that we have that evidence of the life that has gone on there. However, we are told that we must always be perfectly clean. We could clean the walls of course, but that would take much more time than we are willing to spend. So we cover it with a fresh new coat of paint. But the dirt is still there and more dirt will build up on top of the new paint.
Sometimes we wish we could tear down the walls entirely and start with new ones. We believe that change like that will change the entire makeup of the place in which we live. Not many of us have that luxury to rebuild however. Instead, we choose a new colour for the walls and pretend that they are entirely new. Of course, we know that is not the truth, but we tell ourselves to believe. We imagine that the old walls no longer exist.
The holes in the walls are the hardest to fix. We patch them up with something much weaker than than the material it started out with. The patch is made of something different, and will never be quite the same as everything around it. Society tells us that we must hide the fact that we had that hole to fix in the first place. So we paint over it. But the hole is still there. It simply hides beneath another layer of paint.
The dirt we cover up is the filth built up from living in and using the room in our daily lives. It is only natural that we have that evidence of the life that has gone on there. However, we are told that we must always be perfectly clean. We could clean the walls of course, but that would take much more time than we are willing to spend. So we cover it with a fresh new coat of paint. But the dirt is still there and more dirt will build up on top of the new paint.
Sometimes we wish we could tear down the walls entirely and start with new ones. We believe that change like that will change the entire makeup of the place in which we live. Not many of us have that luxury to rebuild however. Instead, we choose a new colour for the walls and pretend that they are entirely new. Of course, we know that is not the truth, but we tell ourselves to believe. We imagine that the old walls no longer exist.
The holes in the walls are the hardest to fix. We patch them up with something much weaker than than the material it started out with. The patch is made of something different, and will never be quite the same as everything around it. Society tells us that we must hide the fact that we had that hole to fix in the first place. So we paint over it. But the hole is still there. It simply hides beneath another layer of paint.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Paper Life
There are many books sitting on shelves across the world who will never be read. There are many other books who will forever be kept close, read by many people and many times by each person.
How marvelous are the books who are forever being opened and passed on, who sit by bedsides and are the very inspiration for the lives of others. These books may never have a day to rest, but are overjoyed to be so important to the world. Their spines may be broken, dust covers lost, pages torn, and corners dog-eared. They may be covered in dirt from the places they are dragged, scribbled with writing, rebound, and faded. But these books know they are loved.
How pitiful are the books who are left untouched. They sit waiting to be opened and their souls uncovered. The keeper may not recognize the title, or these stories may not yet even have keepers. They are left unread to gather dust and impress shallow humans, alone for the rest of their existence. Some of the well-known ones or the young ones may have a future in a well-read home, but for the others there is no future except a deadly pulp mill.
The more daring books may venture to sit in a bookstore and try to be bought by an individual human. Those whose are fortunate enough to be bought usually end up content in a small library of a single home; a more glamorous existence. The others are sent to be mulched or pulped, living only a short life of reckless hope.
The more cautious would choose to be part of a library. There, there is plenty of company, but no permanent owner or permanent home. Many temporary keepers are abusive, others are careful and respectful, and the books never know when they will be returned to their home. It is more dependable to be content than a bookstore, but more humble of an existence.
An electronic book in the eyes of a paper one is a robot. There is no tangible soul to an e-book. The words may mean just as much and have souls themselves, but there is nothing to hold them together. It can be copied into a new one that is exactly the same. It's existence is merely a fleeting moment of bliss, then nothing at all.
What kind of book am I?
How marvelous are the books who are forever being opened and passed on, who sit by bedsides and are the very inspiration for the lives of others. These books may never have a day to rest, but are overjoyed to be so important to the world. Their spines may be broken, dust covers lost, pages torn, and corners dog-eared. They may be covered in dirt from the places they are dragged, scribbled with writing, rebound, and faded. But these books know they are loved.
How pitiful are the books who are left untouched. They sit waiting to be opened and their souls uncovered. The keeper may not recognize the title, or these stories may not yet even have keepers. They are left unread to gather dust and impress shallow humans, alone for the rest of their existence. Some of the well-known ones or the young ones may have a future in a well-read home, but for the others there is no future except a deadly pulp mill.
The more daring books may venture to sit in a bookstore and try to be bought by an individual human. Those whose are fortunate enough to be bought usually end up content in a small library of a single home; a more glamorous existence. The others are sent to be mulched or pulped, living only a short life of reckless hope.
The more cautious would choose to be part of a library. There, there is plenty of company, but no permanent owner or permanent home. Many temporary keepers are abusive, others are careful and respectful, and the books never know when they will be returned to their home. It is more dependable to be content than a bookstore, but more humble of an existence.
An electronic book in the eyes of a paper one is a robot. There is no tangible soul to an e-book. The words may mean just as much and have souls themselves, but there is nothing to hold them together. It can be copied into a new one that is exactly the same. It's existence is merely a fleeting moment of bliss, then nothing at all.
What kind of book am I?
Sunday, October 2, 2011
The Mask
I put on my mask again. The mask of lies and smiles. It covers everything from my toes to my head, although it seems to miss my eyes. It must, I suppose, so that I can see.
It is a mask of white. Of purity and light. Of the way I used to be and how I used to think and speak. Of how I used to sing to the world as if every day was full of music and love. And how I used to dance and draw my way through every thought. Or how I used to think my way through the problems of each moment. It is a mask of me before I needed a mask.
I fear the mask is not thick enough. It is beginning to turn a little gray as the colours underneath become darker and darker. It seems it is breaking as well. The cracks are more visible to my eyes now than they have ever been. I fear they may soon be visible to others too.
Sometimes I don't need the mask. In fact, I am so bright that it frightens me. I become a colour that will end up blinding my eyes if it happens too much. The flash never happens for very long, however. It comes as if it was thrown at me, but doesn't stick because there is nothing holding it on. The contrast left over makes me seem twice as black as before. I am left with an instant of being without my mask and I again fear that others will notice what is underneath.
How I wish to rid myself of this fake white face I hold. It no longer even fits the real one underneath. It was made for the old me when an emergency caused the dark to appear. That old dark would soon fade and the mask was able to stay untarnished for later use. Today's black no longer fades. I wish I could make a mask that fits the me today. But seems the white material has run out, leaving with only the old mask to use.
And so I continue to wear it.
It is a mask of white. Of purity and light. Of the way I used to be and how I used to think and speak. Of how I used to sing to the world as if every day was full of music and love. And how I used to dance and draw my way through every thought. Or how I used to think my way through the problems of each moment. It is a mask of me before I needed a mask.
I fear the mask is not thick enough. It is beginning to turn a little gray as the colours underneath become darker and darker. It seems it is breaking as well. The cracks are more visible to my eyes now than they have ever been. I fear they may soon be visible to others too.
Sometimes I don't need the mask. In fact, I am so bright that it frightens me. I become a colour that will end up blinding my eyes if it happens too much. The flash never happens for very long, however. It comes as if it was thrown at me, but doesn't stick because there is nothing holding it on. The contrast left over makes me seem twice as black as before. I am left with an instant of being without my mask and I again fear that others will notice what is underneath.
How I wish to rid myself of this fake white face I hold. It no longer even fits the real one underneath. It was made for the old me when an emergency caused the dark to appear. That old dark would soon fade and the mask was able to stay untarnished for later use. Today's black no longer fades. I wish I could make a mask that fits the me today. But seems the white material has run out, leaving with only the old mask to use.
And so I continue to wear it.
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