The color of broccoli, it’s the most magical thing I have ever seen, or remember seeing. Its shades changing from one stem to another. The way how it is at first light in shade then slowly, flows darker then blossoms into little buds of beauteous broccoli. The shape and texture of broccoli may be close to that of cauliflower, but the color of broccoli . . . is glorious. Cauliflower is bland, numb, equal. Broccoli is vibrant, contrasting, transitioning shades. Today I have cauliflower. I wish it was broccoli.
In. For. Of. Cat. A. Had. The. Did. On. Sat. Simple words that make no sense. Word are just characters and sounds that humans have made to be a substitute for movements and grunts. When did we first feel the need to communicate? Running from a lion? ‘Get out of the way! It’s going to eat you!’ Or was it more of just an instinct? When with others of the same species, communicate. But when you are alone, why do you still feel the need to record your life, your experiences, your thoughts? Excuse me, I should have said I. I am alone, but I want to share this with you. What I don’t understand is why I want to share me with you so badly. I mean, I try to record my thoughts, even when it hurts me.
I am afraid I’ll forget what I thought about, and just continue thinking the same thing over and over, and each time thinking that it is a new thought. I asked for a computer. No answer. I asked for paper and a pencil. No answer. I asked for a stone and a chisel. No answer. I screamed. I pleaded. I yelled. I cried. No answer. But who do I think would answer me? I think the people who give me the broccoli and cauliflower might. I never see them, but I know they are there. In trying to keep my humanity – civil communication – I became inhumane, to myself. I scratched at the walls to form letters.
I don’t remember what happened afterwards, but now I don’t have nails anymore. The walls are plain again, I don’t remember what I wrote. The walls are like cauliflower again. I use to have long hair, now I don’t know what it looked like. I pulled one strand at a time and spit on it. I would then manipulate the piece of hair until it formed a letter or word. It’s all gone now. I thought about using my blood as paint, so I bit my finger until it bled. I couldn’t see the blood. Is blood suppose to be invisible? I can’t use invisible ink because what’s the use of writing if you can’t see it? Do you know any other way to write?
I try to guess what they will bring me for my meal. It switches from water or milk, chicken or fish, bread or rice, cauliflower or broccoli. All of the food is bland in shade, except for magical broccoli of course. The food, my clothes, the walls, my skin, the floor, everything in this 8 by 8 by 8 cell is the same shade of bland numbness. There are no windows, no doors, no air vents, no light bulbs. I don’t know how my food arrives or how my excrement leaves.
Isn’t skin suppose to have dark spots or wrinkles or tiny little hair? When your fingers pinch skin, isn’t it suppose to change colors? Aren’t you suppose to be able to take off your clothes? Isn’t your veins suppose to seen when they are close to the surface of the skin? Isn’t your tongue suppose to be long enough where you can see it? I wonder what shade my tongue is. I wonder what shade my eyes are. I hope they are the color of broccoli.