Everything is white, except when it's not.  That's how I see it.  Some people are more non-white than white, but that's how it goes.  I can't help it.  I don't.  I've been blank, null, 0, a nonentity.  People paint each other.  The manikin shine of their bodies covered in globs streaks dots of rainbow.  They see themselves in the planes of colour, the light reflecting off their own affectation.  

It's not going to happen.

I feel silly.  I sliced past that ingratiating suit, and it's too thin for me to care about what happens to it, but I slough it off rather than rip.  What follows is why.  The insides are not white, did you know?  It it soft and unlike the vinyl of the suit.  I turn my head to see if anyone notices.  That's not the case.  I slip into the canvas again because it doesn't matter whatever I am.  I feel the fray from the incision made in the center of my skull to the nape of my neck to my shoulders down the spine just barely by my covered hands.

Painting each other.  You know there are other things we could do.  Sharpen one end of the paintbrush, stab-let-go it in the water, see if we spear a fish.  You would have thought we would have tried putting the paintbrushes in each other's holes, or omit the paintbrushes all together.  Do acrobatics.  Make a pyramid.  Out of people?  Something.  Let me reiterate: it's not going to happen.  This is a white world where all they do is paint.  All that smearing stuff around is all that goes.  It's all that goes, and it hasn't happened to me - what do I know?  I know what I can see.  I see the movement made visible only by shadow and colour.  

A figure accosts me, fully ornate in blues and yellows.  Lines of what you would perceive as flowers delicately wrap her curves.  The yellows are sharp and loud.  She paints in pink.  It feels foreign, the thick cold lying on top of a skin with no nerves.  Two blotches on the cheeks.      



Created 04:43 14 September 2025
Last updated 14 September 2025