Bright White

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: May 02, 2017

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Submitted: May 02, 2017



Bright white


I hate coming home to this white building that makes my eyes hurt. It’s hard to sleep when the white is too bright. It eats through my eye lids and plays a never ending song of mute-noise. It’s like listening to a riddle that never ends: what’s the point. If there was a point to be made it could have been made when this place was put in.


Coffees cold, that’s ok though because I am too. It’s because of the white. The cereal tastes like cardboard and the milk tastes like paint. Crème is wishful thinking. My tongue is the size of a frog but my body is the size of a machine, that stupid tongue only thinks for itself.


The volume that the white plays its violent song is relevant to what is going on.  As soon as I walk out in the rain the noise protrudes. How dare you be willing and brave. The minute I succumb to hunched shoulders and “What if’s”, the music is more rhythmical, in a sick and maddening way. No matter what is going on the white is visible and hearable. It is just a matter of whether it is moving like a turtle or like a crack-addicted clown. Whether it is loud like the best-worst concert or quiet like the loudest library. The white Is clean and pure-that is what makes it great at doing what it does, there are no stains or memory of what it is doing, it just does what it does without regret or even the fathomable possibility that it may be leaving scar-trauma on its victims.


I only sleep while I am awake.

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