THE BLUE WALL
I hear bells ringing, surely in my head, when I open my perpetual tired eyes, and see the blue wall in the morning. The blue wall, because I tend to sleep on my left side every time. Just a habit of mine. It certainly lacks vitality.
Once I see the blue wall, I am reminded of the current status of every thing. I churn the thoughts and try to surge out the prolific side of myself. Sometimes, doing so, I raise myself with my coruscating spirit which manages to outshine the early morning sun. Sometimes, I feel as small as any human can possibly feel when he does successfully feel little. Little, in every pragmatic and metaphysical sense.
This varied routine is witnessed by this great blue wall. It has absolutely nothing on it. Just blue paint. A rather light blue color, which manages to please almost all the human eyes who manage to visit this esoteric place once in a while. I could say the room, with the blue paint, is itself rather lonely. Not many breathing beings, no matter the status of their spirit, consider it worth a visit. Rather, there never is a consideration of this kind. What vitality can it gain when it belongs to only one person, and that person is even more esoteric. Well, it certainly can’t get a better status than this. So, it certainly lacks vitality.
Yes, well, I think of a morsel afterwards. Now, the morsel is vital. Because the absence of it might have dire consequences. Just a food for thought. Or so they say.
They say it correctly though.
Once in a while, when the time is expanding or contracting, or so I say, I brush past a shoulder of someone. But ah! The sensation of it. It is a mysterious relief.
I have my eyes darting everywhere. That’s a frequent phenomenon. Eyes cannot stay committed to one subject. The subject itself, in my case, is volatile in nature. It fails itself to capture my eyes for a considerably long duration. And so it vanishes from my set of eyes. And they dart again, for something altogether new. And always there are myriad possibilities for my set of eyes to dart around. There always exists a variety. This is a day-long chore that my eyes perform.
These set of eyes search the figure the shoulder of whose I brush past. And what do they do? Well, search of course. Nothing in particular. And my shoulder , meanwhile, is relieved that it brushed another shoulder. They all seem to perform only a single task, my anatomical parts. Contemplation.
The blue wall, of course, doesn’t know all this. It’s an inanimate object. The one which I wake up to every morning.
Further down in this train of thoughts, the contemplation of the parts continues, as does the rotation of earth. In this self-proclaimed esoteric being’s case, contemplation cannot face death; let alone going through the ordeal of dying and then dying. It is that mighty in magnitude. Or so I say.
Sometimes, I contemplate this looking at the blue wall.
Perhaps my darting eyes are meant to be read by another pair of darting eyes. It wouldn’t be any sort of transgression. My pair of eyes belongs to me. And perhaps even my pair of eyes shall make an attempt to contemplate on the other attentive pair of eyes. Or so I say. To the blue wall.