The Loneliest Colour

Majestic Sheep, Devon Butler

These are the purple walls of my prison. Scratching up my back. Laughing as I fall to the floor in a state of blurry despair. They watch me at night, when I’m most active, like a hamster running in its squeaky wheel. Trying to get somewhere. Waiting for somebody to forget to close the cage door so I can make my escape.

I tried and I failed. A disembodied hand slammed the door shut, just as I was making my grand exit. There is more power in that pathetic hand than in all my attempts to succeed.

The only thing to do in this place, solitary and detached, is to sleep and hope you dream of pleasant things. Fluffy lambs baaing in the distance and the strong arms of a man picking you back up. But my dreams are disorderly. Disjointed. Fragmented pieces of things and thoughts and images that consume my brain while I’m awake.

Even if I could escape, would it make any difference? Would it patch together the broken thoughts that haunt me, the thoughts that tell me I’m nothing. No good. Worthless.
If I could get in the car and drive until I see an ocean, or something bigger than me I’d still be trapped within the structure of its metal pieces, the borders of a country and the deterioration of my mind. In the happiest place on earth I will still see a flash of purple, calling me back. Reminding me that no matter how many miles I travel, I must return.

I must return to not getting what I want. To being overlooked and judged unfairly. Criticized, demoralized and having all my worst fears confirmed.

But those strong arms materialize and new hands with more sensitivity guide me into a car, into a place, an escape. They possess enough power to lift me, but let me walk on my own. Into a place without squeaky wheels or beady eyes, dirty carpets, board meetings and most importantly, without the purple walls I will try to rest of my days to prove wrong.

March 14, 2012 Blueprint Web Administrator 4 Comments

4 Comments

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