Subject: [FFML][EVA][Self Insert?][Who knows?][Darkfic]Ceiling/Sealing
From: "Seventh Messenger" <nanashi96@hotmail.com>
Date: 8/22/1998, 9:13 AM
To: ffml@fanfic.com

Ceiling / Sealing

"When I was a child, I drew dragons of the clouds in the sky that was my 
ceiling. My delight was the grass that I lay upon, my bed."

Can't exactly say what I'm doing right now, lying in bed in the middle 
of the afternoon, staring at the ceiling, doing nothing at all but what 
I just said I was. No I can't. I can't even say what I see when I'm 
staring at the ceiling. The white, white, white plaster? Maybe, maybe. 
Maybe I don't even care. Maybe I'm staring at the ceiling for the sake 
of staring at the ceiling, no other reason at all. Maybe the ceiling is 
the most interesting thing in the world, and I've just gotten a chance 
to see it for myself. I'm not wasting a moment of my time, getting a 
good a look as I possibly can, looking, looking, looking. Just as the 
river stares at the sky, though I'm not a river and only in the 
strangest of minds could my white plaster ceiling could be thought to be 
anything even in comparison to the sky. And rivers don't stare, do they? 
The sky is a great and wonderful thing. To do nothing and just stare at 
the sky is the most, how should I put it, elegant way of wasting time. 
Though if I had a choice, which I do, today, I would choose my white 
plaster ceiling to the sky. Why in the world would anyone just stare at 
the ceiling? Don't I have anything better to do? If I had to seriously 
answer that question, I would say I don't. But since I don't have to 
seriously answer that question, I'll tell you the truth. I've done all I 
have to do. I've done all I've chosen to do. I've finished, and I've 
been granted my reward. The reward is freedom. The ultimate, total, 
completely empty freedom. Kind of reminds me of a cartoon I watched 
sometime ago. A Japanese cartoon, anime they call it. Can't quite 
remember just what it was called. Think it was something like Neon 
Genesis or something. Ah, that's it. Neon Genesis Evangelion. Yes. 
That's the title. Somewhere 'round the end of the series, they have all 
this stuff about the world of freedom. Yes, freedom is a wonderful 
thing. Freedom is also empty, the boringest thing in the world. Can't 
think of anything boringer. 
I've heard people say they know the will of God. Now I'm about to say 
the same. I know the will of God. There, I've said it. Though that's not 
what I mean, of course. I mean to say I know how God feels. He feels 
like this: I feel bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, repeat to 
the infinite time. What else can a person feel if you've been everywhere 
and done everything and seen everybody and tasted every food. Now I'm 
not saying I've done all of that. Just saying that for today. Not much I 
could any more do today than as to waste time. I've earned myself the 
right to say that I'm bored, or at least for today. That's all you need 
to know. All I'll tell you. 
What is the color of the ceiling?

Black, cause it might be like this:

But I'm not looking at the ceiling. Not really. I'm looking at something 
else, something far more meaningful than the empty white plaster ceiling 
in front of my eyes. The two images juxtapose, so at the same time I'm 
looking at the ceiling, I'm also looking at this other image. An image 
that's only inside my mind, nowhere else. Hallucinating? Me? Don't think 
so. I'm the sanest person around, or so I think so. Then again, so do 
most of all the crazies in the nuthouse. So, no, I don't have the right 
to say that I'm sane. Neither do you. Neither does anyone else. That's 
why, just for now, we'll assume that I'm sane. 
So like, why am I staring at the white plaster ceiling? No, not why I'm 
staring at the white plaster ceiling. Why am I doing something else 
while I'm staring at the white plaster ceiling? Why is my vision 
slightly blurred, as if my eyes were filled with water? 
Why am I crying? 
I wasn't before, sure as heck. But I am now, and as I wipe the tears 
from my eyes, I look at the tears in a sort of a combination of wonder 
and fear. Insanity? The lack of control of my tear glands? I'm 
questioning myself, though I really shouldn't be. I know perfectly well 
why I'm crying.

"I am the ceiling. The ceiling is the sky. The sky is a river. The river 
is a mirror. And in the mirror, I see me."

And I realize the person I've become, who can think of nothing better 
than staring at the ceiling when I have nothing better to do, for the 
mere sake of staring at the ceiling. Nothing better, nothing worse. This 
is the little, grey person I've become. This shell that is me. And I 
cry. 

White, or something else entirely:

Why am I really looking at the ceiling? No, seriously. I'm not joking. 
Why in the world am I looking at the ceiling. The white, white, white 
ceiling that I find so interesting I've been staring at it for over half 
an hour? What is it that I see in the smooth graduation of light into 
darkness that no one else sees? Am I truly, completely, absolutely 
bored? Or do the shadows on the white ceiling really captivate me? Allow 
me to see the light at the end of the tunnel, the end of the darkness 
that I've kept myself within for all the time that the plague called 
real life ruled me? 
No. I just see the shadows, or the light, depending on how you look at 
it. There's no purpose whatsoever, merely my interest in the ceiling 
itself. And it so interests me, so completely that I am captivated, and 
without a doubt, mesmerized, admiring. Is it beauty? Simplicity? Maybe. 
Can't really say, for there's not a thought going through my mind.

"I am the ceiling. The ceiling is the sky. The sky is a river. The river 
is a mirror. And in the mirror, I see me."

Somebody, I say somebody, said that your friends are reflections of 
yourself. I'm not sure whether I believe that or not, but I know that 
it's a true thing, as true as the sky and the earth. Heaven and Hell? 
Maybe. I don't care. But it is true. 
Perhaps in their eyes, those of my friends, I am still a child, in love 
with the light and the shadows, a child in a field, running and 
laughing, captured by simple things. The taste of candy. The shape of my 
hands. The shapes of the clouds in the sky.
I've seen a lot. Not everything, but far, far more than some people I 
know. They'd say I was a hypocrite if they heard me, but I only say it 
because it's true. Nothing surprises me anymore, yet everything does. 
And I feel a certain sadness, felt by those who have found a great 
treasure, but cannot share it with others because it only exists 
relative to the discoverer. The sadness isn't for those who can't share 
my wonder. The sadness is for me. I, the idiot, me. 

Why am I staring at the white plaster ceiling? No, not why I'm staring 
at the white plaster ceiling. Why am I doing something else while I'm 
staring at the white plaster ceiling? Why is my vision slightly blurred, 
as if my eyes were filled with water? 
Why am I crying?
I wasn't before, sure as heck. But I am now, and as I wipe the tears 
from my eyes, I look at the tears in a sort of a combination of wonder 
and fear. Insanity? The lack of control of my tear glands? I'm 
questioning myself, though I really shouldn't be. I know perfectly well 
why I'm crying.

"The child's tears are crystals of light, sparkling in the darkness of 
which they are a part. They are pure things, incorrigible until the end, 
yet they are made of bits and pieces of everything."


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