Broken Teacups

xii. a single shade of gray

Reeling. Head reeling. Sweat lined on my brow and my neck, pouring down the sides of my head, down my neck and my back. The same old air conditioned room, its drab white walls reminding me of everything I want to forget.

Blinking. Staring. At the crack in the corner of the room, dusty and brown. Lizard droppings littered around it, a tiny ant crawling towards it. A small puddle of water a few feet away, caused by the drips of water from the ancient air conditioner.

Thinking. Deep thinking. About this plain old life and how to escape it. Hands wrung together, face expressionless, a single thought forming in my mind. That I can't stand it. I can't stand it anymore.

This monotony. This absence of excitement and something to look forward to when waking up in the morning, the sun's rays dancing on the plain, white walls. The walls that are so dull and devoid of color, they make my head spin with agony.

Parched lips and an aching head, I reach for an aspirin and gulp it down with some water, never drawing my gaze away from the crack in the corner of the room. My head is full of emptiness and fuzzy feelings, the kind that make me want to climb a mountain and skydive and dance drunkenly in a bar, the kind that make me realize that even in doing so, I won't find closure. I'll still be trapped here, in my own mind, feeling lost and without excitement.

Rubbing. A lot of head rubbing, an exasperated sigh running out of my mouth, my tired eyes looking at the other end of the room. I could tell you the exact number of tiles in the floor and the time it takes for a piece of lint to float to the ground from the pile of laundry sitting atop the wooden desk near the door.

Sweat drips from my brow to my lips and I lick the saltiness, closing my eyes and relishing this momentary escape from the dullness that surrounds me, the dullness I simply can't avoid.

I used to think it was this room that was the problem. The absence of other humans that was causing my lonely boredom. But as I sat here on this torn sofa, day after day, I realized that it was nothing but my own self that was making me feel so pathetic.

No matter where I went or what I did, I would still feel the same monotony. The same feeling that there is simply no use in living if I'm doing nothing but eating, sleeping and walking the three steps from here to the bathroom.

My mind used to be so full of light and color and brilliant enthusiasm. But all that's there now is a single shade of gray.

Just a single shade of gray.

Drinking. Swallowing. My thirsty tongue lapping up the water I pour down it as I shake my head and rub my mouth with the back of my hand.

A single shade of gray.