The four walls of my bedroom are painted in this atrocious shade of pink, a shade that perpetrates irony with its color. Pink—a (supposedly) happy color with added connotations of a land filled with rainbows, unicorns, fairies and magical pixie dust. In my case, the pink I see is of horror. Am I allowed to say that this pink traps me? I’m starting to increasingly loathe this color. A color which reminds me of the bedroom where I’m bound for the next three years in a city which I do not love.
There’s just too much about this life here that makes me feel out of place with everything. The city with no trees, no ocean, no rainbows, no stars and when it rains, it rains acid. And acid just about kills everything. Acid burns, acid is toxic, acid is not good for my heart. I walk on the acid-drenched ground after the rain and each step burns away the rubber soles of my shoes. These walks remind me so much of the distance and the separation, it reminds me about how the things I hold dear are near yet far. If my shoes are no more, how am I to run back to the land before this? Thus, loathe extends outside the pink of my bedroom. It sleeps inside me like a growing giant.
Progress? What is progress? The progress of the city is the progress of a loud, flippant and disgruntled man. Progress that is supposed to be raw, unsharpened for the masses; progress that we all can be a part of—I see none of that. Rather, there is a growing dissatisfaction inside this disgruntled man. He craves for so-called-needs, always moving, unstoppable needs. The man craves and so he murders. He murders what is left of a bygone era. What and who he murders? Well, these are the things I should ask myself because his needs—they are sometimes mine. I do not know how to love this disgruntled man and his activities; and hence, this loathe is directed to me as well.
Most of all, I see concrete. I see concrete everywhere. I wake up to four walls with no windows and no sunshine, no birds chirping, there is the drone of the air conditioner which I hate because it reminds me of how there is no wind. So, I dream of my old room with the blue walls, in which I sleep with the windows open every night. The city is built upon concrete and it breathes air that is spilling dust and its palms are lined with roads that have no end. The city also has scarily long fingers and sharpened fingernails.
To end on a brighter note—in the pink bedroom, there is a door. This door leads me directly into the palms of the city with no trees, no ocean, no rainbows and no stars. But most importantly, the door also reminds me of escape; of how fleeting this time will come to past, and for that I am grateful.