I was sitting alone in an empty classroom. I mean it wasn’t like me to stay sitting in an empty auditorium. I didn’t have a choice. This is where I had come to in my dream. I hadn’t chosen to be alone. I hadn’t chosen. Sometimes being alone is something that just happens.
Here I am.
But I do have something. I have myself. I have a box of crayons on the desk beside me. I stand up and with the crayons trace colors across the white walls. Over and over the colors go covering up the white, taking over all the space. It’s a war of colors. They are taking off like rockets, moving apart like exploding planets.
There is a knock at the door. That closed classroom door. I don’t look at it. I scratch out the color in front of my eyes with a black crayon. It’s a blindfold that hides me. I need to black it out, all the things I thought about. But my hand is stuck on the blindfold. At the edges I see the colors spilling. They edge in close. So close that they almost vanish.
There are no colors on these white walls. Not anymore. It’s just a plain room. There are no crayons because I am not a child and how could I move that quickly to cover the walls, these big plain walls. Why would I ever choose to be alone? The room is full of white noise, all the senseless chatter of all the others. The instructor is picking up the chalk brush.