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I never truly appreciated the color white. It’s so dull and plain. And of course, any sign of an imperfection will instantly be seen. Besides, no white is ever truly white. How could it be, right? It must be perfectly white, which supposedly doesn’t exist.
White surrounds me always now. It’s the color of the walls, the doctors and nurses’ uniforms; even the clothes they allot to us are as well. I don’t understand why they do this to us. It’s supposed to be “calming,” because it does not inspire any passionate thinking or actions. They say the color red can arouse violence.
Most others who come through here are content with the color. To me, white is unbearable.
I never can understand why everything is this way. Does that make me crazy?
Why does no one believe me? I have found what they have been looking for.
I have never seen anything so miraculous. It was perfect.
I fell in love.
My life suddenly had meaning, yet somehow simultaneously meaningless. I indeed found what I was looking for, but now what? Do I live in despair or take grasp upon new meaning? I’m not entirely certain new meaning can be found. At this point I wouldn’t surprised if there never was a point to all of this.
It almost frightened me I think. I felt like I was grasping so tightly that it seemed to try to slip away faster. Never in my life could I let go.
I feel inferior to it sometimes. Or perhaps it feels inferior to me. But why should it matter what’s better or worse? Why can’t we all just be satisfied?
My memories only allow a blur of it now. It never had much of a clear picture in my mind anyways. To this day I can only vaguely see anything of it. This thought saddens me.
One day, it was gone. I was taken here. Nothing feels the same anymore. Nothing is the same; it no longer can be.
Everyday it becomes more of a blur. It feels like it was never there sometimes.
But I know in my soul that it was there. It was always there, and will always be there, just not here. They may try to deny it’s existence, but they cannot deny my will.
It exists! I keep telling them they’re wrong.
What’s wrong with wanting it? I ask them if their life’s desire was standing in front of them, why not clutch onto it and never let go?
I often ask why me. Why was I so fortunate to find such perfection? I alone believe that it exists, that such a perfect being can be found. They don’t understand it’s existence, but I tell them that they can’t ignore what they don’t understand.
I feel I have transcended something. I still do not know my purpose. It is unclear what I am meant to do, as well as what I am meant not to do.
One day, something happened; something changed. I saw something. A man, I do believe. It was a winter evening. Tiny white pieces from above floated onto my skin. When I tried to grasp them in my palm, they disappeared.
I ran towards this man, and he turned around to face me. I stabbed him.
Why not is all I ask. There was nothing truly extraordinary about this man.
He fell to the ground and stayed there. His mouth was gaped and his brows were furrowed. Pain and fear was in his eyes. He reached towards me desperately. I did not know what to do.
I stood there. I watched him. I watched him as he suffered. I watched him as he stopped suffering. I watched as the velvet red blood dripped from my knife onto the cold whiteness below. It was no longer perfect.
My love started to fade that day.
I have much more to tell. It will be impossible to finish; my story is endless.
This is my story.