Monday, 11 April 2011

Sin... all white?

Blue. My favourite colour.

Profiteroles, my dessert of choice.

Risperdal, my drug of enforced peace.

White... well you'd expect everyone to like white, wouldn't you? Clean, crisp, pure. Can't stand it myself. Strangely, my dislike of the colour turned up, tapping me on the shoulder and saying 'Hi', not long after I arrived here. I think it may have had something to do with the glaring ghastliness of pretty much everything around - the walls, the uniforms, the lights that burn into the back of your head like lasers in your eyes, even when they're closed. I would think that could have an effect on your opinion of something.

It's like, I used to like snow. Snowfall, snow scenes, snowballs and snow angels. Oh, and snowmen of course. I once pushed a small snowball down a hill with my family to try and see how big it would get when we reached the bottom. In the end, we couldn't move it and it was bigger than us. I used to like crisp, starched white sheets on my bed. Now, I have them and I hate them. Now, if it snows, I would turn from the window and star at the wall. I would, but it's pointless - the wall and the ceiling and the floor are as white as the snow.

In a blizzard, it's like I am being suffocated by the total expanse of nothing.

But blue... what I wouldn't give for a bit of blue. We have the sky out the window, when it's not overcast. We have... erm... Nope, that's it. The sky. That's all the blue we get. You even find yourself looking into people's eyes for a hint of another colour. But even they're surrounded by white. Granted quite often, in here, that's tinged with red.

Why do you think it is that they remove all colour from our world? Is it therapeutic? Meant to calm the savage beast? Red is the rag to the bull so remove any trace of that and its compadres? Do they think, if there a glimmer of green or an orchestra of orange, the inmates would take over the asylum?

No. It's control. Pure and simple. A demonstration of what they can take away from you. They may profess to be able to give you back your mind, but in reality - something severely lacking in here - they strip you of everything you have and everything you are.

Possibly, it's so they can rebuild you from scratch. An blank easel to sketch out the new, improved, you. Yeah, it might be that. And pigs soar through the skies big little fairy wings, their tails spinning like a helicopter's.

If you don't have anything left, you don't have anywhere to go. You lose yourself in the void, stumbling at first to find your way, then acquiescing and resigning and merging yourself until you, too, become void. Then they have you. Then you are there's and they can do with you what they will.

Ask Caroline. Ask Jersey. Not that they'd tell you. One from fear and the other from arrogance.

On my original 'application' to join the ranks of the insane, I pleaded paranoia. You may not believe me, given my growing belief that 'THEY' have plans that do not necessarily include the full well-being of the residents, but I'm not paranoid. I'm realistic and observant.

Being the only sane person in here, someone has to watch out for my fellow freaks.

Just because you're NOT paranoid, doesn't mean that they're not out to get you. All white? I mean... all right...?

No comments:

Post a Comment