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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