Dirty Bed, Dirty Head: it’s been drumming through my consciousness. I need a major clean up. Inside my head, and in my surroundings. she thought.
On the walls next to her window were her paintings, angry slashes of color. Peaceful colours agitated into swirls. Confusion of confusion. Vivid red of joy and pain, purples of contentment. Refreshing greens and blues to drown in. Smoke pumped from a factory she could see from outside her window, and she could hear gentle sobbing from the next room. She refused to turn away from the vista of green that spread at her feet, and clutched her mug of hot coffee harder. Not my business. Not any more.
What happened when your worldwiew spun, and morphed into something you never imagined would happen? You cut your losses, and pulled into a shell. And protected yourself until you had the courage to stick your neck out again. Inside the shell, everything is grey, and there is no color left to think in. And you begin to think that the pretty patterns on you bedsheet are better off being white. Less confusion. More peace. Maybe. It was worth trying.