A quiet room. A blank wall. Is this all I have left to live for? Sometimes I wonder whether it’s worth it. I’ve thought about that a lot since I’ve been here. I’ve thought about lots of things. It’s the only thing to do. Sometimes I think back to before I came here. When life was more colourful, and less silent. But that was then, and this is now, and anyway, things back then brought their own problems.

Sometimes, I try to imagine a splash of colour, like before. Colours weren’t that noticeable then, but I think I appreciated them all the same. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I took them for granted, like everything else. What I wouldn’t give for some colour now. A bit of purple, a smidge of pink, a splash of red. What I wouldn’t give for a splash of red. The colour of passion, of love, of danger.. of life itself.

This blank space makes you crazy. It makes you think of life. It’s like you’re slowly watching it ebb away, and while there’s a part of you that tries desperately to claw back every single moment of it, part of you just longs for the end. I’ve done both things. Sometimes at different times, sometimes at the same time.

I used to dream in colour, but not anymore. It’s like I forgot how to over time. I still remember them. I remember them vividly, but that’s all they are — memories. It seems strange, this blankness. It should be black here- there are no colours, and that’s the definition of black — but it’s not. There’s no black. No white — not even a grey. In a place so void of colour, it’s not really surprising if you start to obsess about them. I wished for a blue room or death yesterday. Neither were forthcoming.

Sometimes I think I’m just unlucky, sometimes I think I’m being punished. Either way, it doesn’t matter. The fact is, I’m still here. In this empty, quiet, dull room. My old life — the one before feels like a distant memory. A myth, a story. As days go on, it feels less and less real. Am I forgetting or getting lost? I don’t know. Nothing seems real anymore. Pink died months ago, and yellow left last week. The colours are all fading.

Sometimes I worry that I’ve caused it. In my old life, they said I had a blank outlook. Is that why I’m in a blank room? What I wouldn’t give right now to have a different outlook, if it would give me even a hint of colour. The thought of it, to me, is like finding an oasis in the desert. Highly impossible, yes, but wouldn’t it be wonderful if it happened. Just thinking about it kept me going for days, but now, as the colours go dim, washed out by… I don’t know what, death seems like a blessed relief.

I see it out there sometimes, it looks like a small dot of pigment. I try to reach out and catch it, but it always bounces away. It seems strange now, in this room full of regret, to see that I caused this. I made it happen. Hindsight is a wonderful thing. You think of all the things you would do differently, if only you had a chance to do things over.

In my old life, just before I came here, I longed for still and quiet. Everything was so bright; so busy. I would have done anything for some peace. I did. That’s what makes this so confusing. I thought I wanted this. How could anyone want this? It’s the worst feeling in the world. Floating somewhere between this life and the next. Or possibly, the last. I don’t know anymore. I’ve lost track of it all. I don’t know what day, week, month or year it is. I’m surprised I still remember my name.

It’s like being asleep, and wanting to wake up, but this time, I can’t. I’m stuck in a nightmare, and there’s no coming back from it. How I wish there was. If only I could just will myself awake. I guess you think I deserve it. Sometimes I think that too.

Green. That’s what would be nice. A lush green field. That’s what I thought it would be like. Instead, I’m stuck here; in nothingness. In limbo. I don’t know how long I’ve been here now. Feels like forever. You know when they say people who lack one sense have their other senses heightened? It’s sort of like that here.. but it’s different. Imagine all your senses working perfectly, but there’s nothing at all to stimulate them. Now do you see why I’m going crazy.

I think I must be going crazy. There’s no other explanation. I’ve always hated orange. The colour. The fruit. Everything about it. You know you’re losing it when you begin longing for things you hate. Sometimes I see things. It’s like a flash of colour. I don’t know if it is or not. It’s over too quickly to tell.

I tried to tell myself yesterday that this was not my life. See whether, if I refused it, it would let me go. Release its hold on me and send me forwards or backwards. I don’t really mind which right now. Anywhere would be better than here.

In the beginning, I heard things. Beeps; and sometimes voices. They sort of drifted in and out of my hearing, but far away. At first I wished them away, and kept looking forward to what I thought was coming. It had come so close, but then it stopped. It stopped, and I was left here. Now, I’d love to hear them again. Sometimes I think I am hearing them, but they go again too quickly for me to tell if they were real or not.

I know I’m rambling. Look at me. I’ve become a raving lunatic. Sometimes I feel a little scared. That makes me think of yellow. It always seemed strange to me that such a bold, sunny colour would be used to describe someone who was scared. I wish I was yellow. Hell, I wish I was any colour. Any one at all. Even orange.

The room is getting brighter. I can’t deal with a brighter nothingness. Please, just give me some colour. Please. When I first came here, I thought the colours would follow. I didn’t realise I’d left them back there, in my old life. Why would they stay back there? I was a failure back then. My body was a failure. Not that I’m much better now. A disembodied voice, rambling about colours and regrets. I shouldn’t have any regrets, but here I am, full of them.

Maybe, if I sit here long enough, and think about colours, they’ll come back to me. Or maybe I’ll just die of boredom. Either would be a blessing. Perhaps I should ask Santa. Now, that would make a funny letter. Dear Santa, please could I have some colour, or the blessed relief of death. I don’t even know if it’s Christmas time or not. Part of me hopes he would bring me red. I love red. I never used to think about it much. You just don’t. Colours, in a world full of colour, just aren’t significant. It’s only when they’re gone, that you really realise how much you miss them.

I regret what I did now. At the time, I thought it was the only way. I keep telling myself to wake up. I don’t know what I’d be waking up to, but it really couldn’t be worse than this, could it?


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