Dull Colored Life
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Isn’t it nice to waste away? To not count the time, to not count the days. Keep the blinds closed until it rains, then open them wide and look out at the wet gray mass. The world’s still there though the sunshine is not. It tapers off slow into the night, dark wet streets and anonymous cars in the low lights, low lights flooded out and stretched into strange sad shapes on the pavement. Drift off into sleep and let the visions grow stranger. Float on down until your feet touch the ground in the wide world of soft blue nostalgia, of light pink love, of a darker green fear seated below it all and only rearing up when your feet stumble and your mind reaches for reality. Reality’s far gone though, and that’s the sweetness of this trip. Float on along with your feet just off the ground into the wide world of everything and nothing. It’s somewhere far away from here, and yet it seems it’s this side of the window to the world, this side of the blinds closed to the dark wet night.
It’s nice to slip away and become somebody you’ve never been. Or maybe not that - maybe somebody you’ve always been, but just a different version of yourself floating through a different vision. It’s nice to lose control and let the dream become everything you’ve ever known. That’s when the darker green fear stays below, unnoticed, set aside for a time that doesn’t exist. Past the soft blues and light pinks and into the bright yellows and the flashes of purple and the shifting orange and turquoise. The thin wisps lose themselves at the edge of the void, and then just past the void is the bursting vortex of colorful delights. Once you’re there, anything is possible. All the known pieces of logic, time, reason, space, sense - they drop away. They drop away softly because they are irrelevant. It’s the shedding of an old brittle skin, and it flakes off and dissolves in the swirling mass and you’re fresh and you’re free. Everything is fresh and it’s free.
Then it’s a million stories untold. It can be any place. The place is often like a ripple in a pond, or a reflection in a fun house mirror. It’s a thing with a resemblance to something you know, but it’s not quite the same, and then it shifts dynamically and unpredictably. The people could be called shadows of people that you know, but without any hollow connotation to the world shadow - just another strange shifting form of something else. The feelings are pitching and profound. The feelings are truer versions of the feelings that you know somewhere else. The happenings then, the events - these are perhaps the most unpredictable components of it all. They range from hilarity to terror to profound to everything and nothing. All of these things come together when you pass through the vortex of color and become free. All of these things converge and create life unto itself. You’re not in control, but that’s fine, because the question of control is not relevant here. It’s the other side of the vortex, and it’s no place in particular. It’s the coalescence of all these things swirled and mashed in the unknowable ether, and only accessible once you’re free. It’s infinite stories untold.
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