Searching for Holes

January 4, 2008
By Dylan Garity, Corvallis, OR

You wake. You sleep, you wake again. You walk again, the grass all too bright a shade around you. The world is oversaturated, you are oversaturated, escaped from black and white but desperately missing shades of grey. Shades of grey are delicate and subtle and this, this is screaming, shocking, bleeding, a vibrant wave that lifts you like an umbrella in a storm, tears you inside out and burning.
You shut your eyes and run and open them and you are on pavement. Check your watch to see how long you have, but all you see is your wrist. Again and the watch is there, but it’s changing time. You rip it off and it is dry and cold and you drop it behind and it does not come back.
If you close your eyes again you’ll wake somewhere else. If you hold yourself here your grip will break. So you try hard not to think of either possibility. You can go anywhere as long as you don’t focus. You walk. Steps do not carry a connotation of distance, they simply carry you, and houses blur past like impressionist paintings as you jump six blocks, looking for a familiar face. There is something you want to say.
Here. A front door of dark mahogany lying open, laughter brushes the frame, tickling out from inside. This is where you are going, this is where you are. And she is there, with a red dress and silver sequins that don’t quite reflect the light, with a lazy lock of almost-gold hair, she is barefoot but you don’t look at her feet. You don’t move. Can’t. Even in dreams you are paralyzed, even in dreams you can’t form eloquence, even in dreams you look the other way.
The house is gone, all that is left is pavement. The sun beats down and doesn’t move and you are treading water in a sea of grey. Start walking, start running and don’t look back. This is familiar territory.

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