What must Rick Astley think of his Internet phenomenon? Had I happened to be him, I’d be somewhat humbled, slightly embarrassed (this is me, blushing, scratching the back of my head for lack of a place to put my frustrated fingers, solving the enigmas written on the ceiling. Yes, they are quite important, indeed, very important, immensely important, otherwise I’d look at you, crash headlong into the upturned lips, the caught-you-silly-girl look around your eyes). But, knowing my ego, I’d half-fake these sentiments, be ridiculously proud at an achievement which is, if not my own, inconceivable without my contribution.
A thoroughly white mood, if you ask me, though you will not (a scorned question among others I will not hear from you. A pity, because for once I know the answers). White is complex, but only when seen a certain way. Wearisome, I understand, but that’s perspective for you. Not there, there, not there, there.
You are not the first person to wish I’d stop talking in riddles. Bear with me? I know no other language. I have to spit the words out first, listen to them afterwards. It is only then that I realize how ridiculous I sound, how mystified I must make you (and my mother, my father, my brother, my neighbors, my teachers, my classmates, the people I share elevators with).
But it’s for the best, now that I can look back objectively as objectively as possible. You should know what you’re getting into, shouldn’t you?
Why does white make me lyrical, painfully so? I try to say things the way they are, to avoid firework adjectives, to keep the edge on words. Mother likes to say I’ve inherited my father’s insensitivity. It does not matter to me – I prefer this to other possible personality faults. Someone has to do it, after all. Someone has to say what no one else will.
I’m not trying to glorify it, this detachment, this unconcern (or douchebagness, as Alex so aptly puts it). There comes a point, I’m certain, when insensitivity becomes cruelty, but I am unsure as to where that boundary lies (or even if I care enough to be conscious of it). The thing is, I do not know myself, not really. I’ve lived fifteen years, but I can only recall half of them. I am an ongoing experiment, a trial where I am defendant, judge, jury and executioner.
When white is refracted in a prism, it reveals its underbelly of color components. White is a conflict. White is something different, something that stays the same. Do I have to continue with these comparisons? I know I don’t, but I can never be fully sure of your reactions. It makes me nervous, seasick, awaiting the swish and switch of the features in your face, moving together in sync with the quicksilver of your thoughts, becoming something I will love, or something I will hate.
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