My White Walls

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.


One thought on “My White Walls

  1. Pingback: Denny B. Reese

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