Desert

Untitled Part 2

You try your best to expunge the ochre dust from your home. You don't need more to remind you of what the world has become. There is, however, one exception.

A little plastic pill bottle, white cap and orange base, sits at your desk below the window. Any trace of a label is worn away, its contents long gone. You don't remember why it was prescribed.

You sit down at your desk, hardwood creaking below you. This is where you spend most of your days. A white expanse stretches out before your brush. You don't know why, but the snow of fresh paper has always been far more intimidating than the cadmium blushed wasteland. White is the color of blood. But you haven't seen that in quite some time, so why are you afraid?

You strike out in swift colors, cleansing the page. You don't know what you draw. Maybe it was something once, or maybe it is just abstracted chaos. Either way it is preferable to titanium white or orange rock.

Water is a precious resource to you. Your small well, kept at the back of your house, burbles water stained with rust. Layers of decaying filters and boilers try their best to keep it fresh, but are slowly starting to fail. You horde several drums of the precious liquid in your basement, the only place truly hidden from the sun.

You only waste water on two "frivolities": your watercolor and your tea. You need to paint to fill the time or else it might slowly slip away. And the tea-- you forgot your tea.

There it sits on the counter, untouched. No steam shimmers above the surface. The leaves float, pitifully, in the once-hot broth. The scent of mint hangs over you like fog that you've never seen.