Tag Archives: Insane

Part 3 of 3: The Color of Broccoli

The thing that I like about broccoli is that it makes a crunch sound. My broccoli is not cooked, never mushy. No, my broccoli is raw. It makes sound. I try to recall and I do not ever remember a sound that I did not make, that is why I am so surprised when my bed shifts.

My bed is this cushion in the corner of my room. It is built in to the floor. I have tried to move it, pick it up, rip it, nothing works. But now it is shifted. The left side of the bed is slowly moving upward; it  . . . opens.

There is a passage inside the bed. The passage is not numbness. It is the opposite. It is calm. It is mysterious. It is perfect.

What should I call it? What is a name that matches it affects. What is a name that is breathtaking? What is this color? It shrouds everything in questions. Shroud.

Then, out of the Shroud something soft appears. It’s color is more pure than the numbness but nothing like the Shroud. It is so soft, I want to touch it.

I reach, it swerves away. It says something. It makes it’s own sound. The noise I understand. “Oh no Selena, we are not playing that game again today. I am human, not an object you can touch because you think it’s pretty.”

No! This is new. This is exciting. This is something like broccoli. I do not like this Soft Thing. It pushes me away. I reach more. I touch the Soft Thing. It makes noise. The noise is like when I get cauliflower when I want broccoli and I can’t remember what I do.

Then I realize. I reached for the tallest part of the soft thing and that is where the noise comes from. That is where the ooze comes from. That is where the consistency like milk comes from. The soft thing is in . . . pain? Did I cause pain? Pain is when there is no one or nothing to share with. Pain is not good.

I try to touch the Soft Thing again to say that I regret making pain, but it pushes me away. It makes noise, “We do this everyday Selena! Can you just once make it easy on me?!”

Selena? I do not know what this word means. It was like the Soft Thing was directing it at me. What is Selena? Am I Selena?

“I really wish I didn’t have to do this everyday. I can’t imagine what you are thinking each morning.” Something sharp sticks into me. Something that makes me feel like I do when I want to lay on the bed. My mind clouds  . . .

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.

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 have all these questions, but I don’t know if I’ll forget them tomorrow. Has tomorrow come? Is today tomorrow? When will tomorrow come? Time is infinite. Here. I don’t know if I’ve spent days here. Maybe weeks. Could even be years. Or maybe all this is between my alarm and my five minute snooze button. Time is all I have. But is time infinite in my five minute snooze?

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Part 2 of 3: The Color of Broccoli

I have all these questions, but I don’t know if I’ll forget them tomorrow. Has tomorrow come? Is today tomorrow? When will tomorrow come? Time is infinite. Here. I don’t know if I’ve spent days here. Maybe weeks. Could even be years. Or maybe all this is between my alarm and my five minute snooze button. Time is all I have. But is time infinite in my five minute snooze?

The philosophers of old would kill to be in my position, no distractions, all the time in the world. They could ponder the meaning of life, the behaviors of people, who they are. I’m trying to figure those question out myself. I’ve figured out I need to live first to ponder the meaning of life. I’m merely existing. I need to see another person to ponder humanity’s behaviors. I need to know how I’m like or different from other people to know who I am. A person needs people in order to think.

But who would I even share my findings with? I could have figured out the meaning of life or the cure to cancer, but I couldn’t share it with anyone. I could know how the universe is made, how to bring world peace, but I can never share it. Knowledge is only worth something if you can share it. Without another person, the key to happiness is just wasted space in brain cells.

So I decided to make another person. A whole town of people. A story in my head. I would share my life with them. I would share the cure to cancer with them. Well, if I knew it. Except how can I make characters in a story when I can’t remember ever seeing another person?

I tell a story and words and their world float out of my mouth. The power of words whistle around me, the ideas carried with them dance in my imagination’s eye. Maybe word aren’t only meant to be a connection between people. Maybe words can be a connection between the back of the mind and the corner of the soul. Words can form a bridge between my imagination and my reality.

But what if this 8 by 8 by 8 room is my imagination? What if in reality I’m driving down the road in a professional looking neighborhood, in a professional looking car, in professional looking clothes, going to a professional looking job; what-if-ing about a place where imagination ruled? What if in reality I’m dying, so I decide to live in imagination?

I say these words and they are here from a moment, the time from when it is conceived in my brain to when it emits a sound and carbon dioxide into the air. Then the word are lost between the particles of nitrogen and oxygen. If only I could plaster words to the walls and read them for hours. I speak and make my thoughts into sounds that disappear after my lips have moved onto the next word. What if yesterday I knew why I was in here?

I have run out of words.

I have put all the words I know into infinite combinations. I need a new idea. My imagination is dying. Without new input, no output can occur. I am alone. I will never know anyone and no one will ever know me. So why do I still try to make myself known? No one will ever know I tried, so no one will ever know I gave up. But I will know. Is living for myself enough? Am I selfish like that? But is there anyone for me to be selfless for?

I’m rambling, I know. You probably want to get back to your coffee and daydreaming about the golden days of retirement. But words are precious to me and time is not.

Part 1 of 3: The Color of Broccoli

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.