Two hanging blocks; dark blue intertwined with white thread that doesn't let the light through. Particles of grainy dirt and droplets resting on a clear surface. Framed by paint slightly chipped off the top coat of a piece of wood covered in many white layers. Surrounding a strip barely a few centimeters wide. Individual leaves and blades making up the bottom of the strip, topped with a pale grey, such as a high mountain. Harsh grey boxes, criss crossed with sturdy string marked the border between the dark green leaves and the fresh green blades. Each broken up with small yellow specs, swaying in the calm wind.
Glancing back down from the window, spiky lined circles in the corner out lined how much progress had been made. None. The cream paper was thicker than most. The smooth plane interrupted with shadow like shapes. Shapes that kept on recurring making up a language. One that I couldn't focus in on. A bright red coat caught my sight. Gone before I could zone out from my book again. I started. The black shapes began to be less blurred, and then focused. Sharp lines replicating the harsh edge of the paper. "The curtsy was". I couldn't continue, this was stupid.
I drew the dark blue, intertwined with white thread, curtain that doesn't let the light through back a bit more, widening the strip. I pushed against the cold clear surface. An imprint of thin veins could be seen. Continuing along the skinny lines extruding from the round shape, contrasting to the grainy dirt and droplets already there. I pick at the layer of white. Pulling up sheets at a time, exposing the world beneath it. The works of many like me, aloof and distracted. The contrast of greens remind me of what is laid in front of me begging to be read, while I distract myself with small details. The harsh grey boxes that separate what I see calls for conformity and regularity. The yellow specs, swaying from side to side in the calm wind pulling me to be different. So I look out that window into the world I wish I was in, and it peaks back, taunting me.