staying.cool

cerulean

December 11, 2006

sitting alone on the bed, listening to the first strings of ‘comfortably numb’ pass into consciousness (or beyond it)… staring at the walls that still retain that tinge of.. blue.

Hello?
Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me.
Is there anyone home?

suddenly the feeling of ‘blue’ hits; a sinking despondency that seems to take hold and possess every fibre of the being, every nerve feels tranquilized, the mind seems to be deadening… sinking into an inky blackness. my eyes roam the room: the white starkness of the walls around seem to emphasize the blue that is not completely covered by whitewash; it is almost as if the blue is trying to grow out of the white it lies beneath and seep through every particle it touches. a meaningless terror takes hold, the blue will diffuse out of the wall and take hold of even me.
a pause, a crowd in that stadium thirty years ago applauds trailing notes.

Relax.
I need some information first.
Just the basic facts,
Can you show me where it hurts?

leaning back, feeling the wooden wall against the back of my head, a glass of cranberry juice alongside… i feel afloat. noises drift in from outside, the house opposite.. travelling across the unkempt backyard of my house. the moonlight momentarily lights the corner by the window. it is a shade of blue, with a tinge of white.. the pattern is lost even as i register its beauty. a lull, silence prevails; and gilmour breaks the silence.

There is no pain, you are receding.
A distant ship’s smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves.
Your lips move but I can’t hear what you’re sayin’.

i look up, the sole bulb in the fixture is off, the light in my room is solely at the whim of the moon, and reflections from streetlights in the distance. the blinds are drawn, a pattern threatens to form in front of each of the sills. i’m surrounded by papers, packets, and packaging; discarded in my careless existence.. even i feel discarded by the wayside, a forgotten element in the mosaic of life. the comforter lies in a heap at my feet; i can see the many crevasses that have formed : they seem deeper and darker in the blue luminance of my abode. my feet have disappeared into one of these - its not a necessity, so much as an illusion of comfort in its warmth. my clothes lie heaped in one corner, books in another, the radiator hums away in a third… and i lie in the fourth.

i close my eyes, and drift off… letting the night take over.

When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse,
Out of the corner of my eye.
I turned to look but it was gone.
I cannot put my finger on it now.
The child is grown, the dream is gone.
I have become comfortably numb.