Ode to Blue and Yellow
Everything I see is in shades of red. Every emotion I feel is burning hot and violent, even those that are by nature supposed to be calm.
I'm like a dog, colors are not shown to my eyes. I see the world through red lenses. When I close my eyes to sleep the darkness is denied to me and all I see is blood.
I used to see in color. I used to have eyesight such as is described as 20/20 vision. I used to be happy. I don't remember the circumstances, but I know that, at some moment in the past, I did not see only in red.
I don't remember how I was happy and that is for the best I believe. If I remembered it, I would wish to revisit that time and then the red I see would become even brighter. It is better to have love and lost than never to have loved, but best to love and not remember I suppose. I don't regret my memory loss.
I am a hunter. A hunter of men. I take no pains to cover my steps. The law enforcement have my files, my name, my history, everything, in their drawers and offices. They know everything about me. Everything.
Except where I am. They don't have a clue of where I am. If they did they would swoop down on me like vultures on a dead carcass in the hot desert streets of the city.
Or maybe they do know where I am and are just toying with me. Watching me run until I stumble and fall and then they'll make their move.
Vultures every one of them.
I see happy people and their ideas of happiness do not agree with one another. The ideas of happiness are as diverse as those who think them. The little girl in the old rain coat thinks the rain is happiness because she can splash in puddles. She also thinks the sun is happiness, because it turns her hair red when she goes out to play in it. Two sides of the coin, yet both bring happiness.
The case of the business man walking down the street in the direction of the little girl is a completely different case altogether. He finds the rain to drip down his coat and soak him, while the sun gets in his eyes and blinds him. Money, and his mistress are his sources of happiness.
He walks passed the little girl and she calls out to him, giving a cheerful wave as she does so. He gives a brief smile and waves back and for a brief moment they are connected. Their differing views of happiness do not matter, they share the same emotion of recognition of a fellow human being.
Is that an emotion? Whenever a human recognizes another human that he neither dislikes nor likes there is a certain emotion I feel from both. I cannot describe this feeling and sometimes I wonder if it is a feeling at all, or a fleeting thought that both have in common that is powerful enough to come off as an emotion.
That is of course, ridiculous. Thoughts and emotions are two very different things. You don't use your brain to feel. The brain reacts to certain feelings to be sure, and to some extent controls them, but no one makes a conscious decision to feel a certain way. Drop a hammer on your hand, you don't make a decision to feel the pain.
The rain stops and the sun is out and I am walking home. The little girl is still playing in the street, which is fine. No one on this street has a car and no one with a car wants to come down this way. To look at her you couldn't guess that she's been inside at all today. Red beams glint across her red hair and she smiles, happy because her mother says her hair is pretty when it's in the sun.
I hate the little girl for her happiness. I forgive the businessman for his happiness because it is superficial and momentary, but the little girl's joy is genuine.
I may not regret my lack of happiness but I hate those who enjoy it in all its glory. It angers me, but I repress that anger. Anger is violence and red is a violent color. The little girl is lying in a puddle of thick red and I am gone. My apartment has been abandoned for the police to find as they will. They will derive whatever they can from it, make a pathetic attempt to track me down and then go back to problems they can solve.
I can hear the businessman screaming. He was the one who found the little girl. He doesn't realized that what happened was a simple baptismal. I baptized the child in red. When you are born you are baptized in water, when you die, you are baptized in blood.
If blood is red, and red is the color I hate, does that mean I hate blood? I shall ponder that for a while. Of course, as I said earlier, neither I, nor anyone else, has control over what emotions are felt. But I shall ponder on what relation I have with blood nonetheless, if only for something to do.
There's a cat. It hisses and scratches at me and I baptize it as well and move on.
There is a physical sensation as I look down at my leg and realize the cat tried to baptize me as well. It is fascinating, to say the least. It brings back memories of other attempts at my baptismal, which all failed, save for the first one. I felt fire at the times of those failed attempts. Pain isn't really pain, just fire burning. I wipe the blood away on my torn pants and keep moving.
Sometimes I baptize myself in blood, with a needle. The feeling is sharp, but it allows me to meditate on it. I concentrate on the feeling described as pain and I try to find the source of it. If I can find the part of the my body that responds to the feeling and crush it, I can stop pain.
The church is almost empty. Mass finished long ago and now the only ones who are here are old women praying for their lost ones and tourists looking at the pretty stained glass windows. The confessional is ready and open to all however.
Confession is good for the soul they say, and indeed I do feel better as the young priest soaks up my sins. He thinks I am a demon and perhaps I am. He thinks I am from Hell. For a split second, he thinks I cannot be redeemed. Quickly he shakes that thought from his head, reminding himself that the Christ died so that all might be forgiven. He mentally recites the prayer of the Virgin and gives me my penance. I thank him and go to pray.
Later I see him rush from the confessional. He goes to the office of his superior and cries. I am pleased to find he does not reveal any of what I told him, though he is tempted. His superior can do little to ease his fears.
I cross myself and take my leave. I did not intentionally terrify the young priest. I simply forgot how little the human mind can comprehend and still remain sane. I make a resolve that next time I go to confess I will take the ear of an older man.
No, if I told my sins to an older priest he would probably have a heart attack. Never mind. If I baptize others I prefer it to be in circumstances I decide, not those decided by an old man's poor health.
A man robs me. He stabs me in my stomach and I allow him. He wants my wallet and doesn't realize I carry no such thing because I have no need for money. He needs money to pay for his drugs. I do not bleed and he is shocked and scared at that fact and he turns to run. I let him go. I could baptize him, but I find myself not caring. He does not possess what can be called happiness and most likely never will. If I felt happiness, I would feel sadness now. Sorrow for the man. He is worse off than I.
Without knowing happiness I can not find sorrow. Without sadness, Happiness is elusive. It is a strange circle. Without one emotion I cannot feel the other.
I do not see in color. Seeing only in red is the same as a dog seeing only in gray, as I have pointed out before. I feel no emotion, for if I do not feel one, how can I know what the others are? I am a husk of moving flesh empowered with an ability of insight into the minds of others. That is all I am.
But I admit, sometimes I wish I was more.
Sometimes I wish for blue and yellow.
Author's notes- This was written as an original piece, but re-reading it, I decided it could be a member of Schwartz. I think it's Farfie, but I leave it up to you. Schwartz is copyrighted Project Weiss, and the fic belongs to me.
Everything I see is in shades of red. Every emotion I feel is burning hot and violent, even those that are by nature supposed to be calm.
I'm like a dog, colors are not shown to my eyes. I see the world through red lenses. When I close my eyes to sleep the darkness is denied to me and all I see is blood.
I used to see in color. I used to have eyesight such as is described as 20/20 vision. I used to be happy. I don't remember the circumstances, but I know that, at some moment in the past, I did not see only in red.
I don't remember how I was happy and that is for the best I believe. If I remembered it, I would wish to revisit that time and then the red I see would become even brighter. It is better to have love and lost than never to have loved, but best to love and not remember I suppose. I don't regret my memory loss.
I am a hunter. A hunter of men. I take no pains to cover my steps. The law enforcement have my files, my name, my history, everything, in their drawers and offices. They know everything about me. Everything.
Except where I am. They don't have a clue of where I am. If they did they would swoop down on me like vultures on a dead carcass in the hot desert streets of the city.
Or maybe they do know where I am and are just toying with me. Watching me run until I stumble and fall and then they'll make their move.
Vultures every one of them.
I see happy people and their ideas of happiness do not agree with one another. The ideas of happiness are as diverse as those who think them. The little girl in the old rain coat thinks the rain is happiness because she can splash in puddles. She also thinks the sun is happiness, because it turns her hair red when she goes out to play in it. Two sides of the coin, yet both bring happiness.
The case of the business man walking down the street in the direction of the little girl is a completely different case altogether. He finds the rain to drip down his coat and soak him, while the sun gets in his eyes and blinds him. Money, and his mistress are his sources of happiness.
He walks passed the little girl and she calls out to him, giving a cheerful wave as she does so. He gives a brief smile and waves back and for a brief moment they are connected. Their differing views of happiness do not matter, they share the same emotion of recognition of a fellow human being.
Is that an emotion? Whenever a human recognizes another human that he neither dislikes nor likes there is a certain emotion I feel from both. I cannot describe this feeling and sometimes I wonder if it is a feeling at all, or a fleeting thought that both have in common that is powerful enough to come off as an emotion.
That is of course, ridiculous. Thoughts and emotions are two very different things. You don't use your brain to feel. The brain reacts to certain feelings to be sure, and to some extent controls them, but no one makes a conscious decision to feel a certain way. Drop a hammer on your hand, you don't make a decision to feel the pain.
The rain stops and the sun is out and I am walking home. The little girl is still playing in the street, which is fine. No one on this street has a car and no one with a car wants to come down this way. To look at her you couldn't guess that she's been inside at all today. Red beams glint across her red hair and she smiles, happy because her mother says her hair is pretty when it's in the sun.
I hate the little girl for her happiness. I forgive the businessman for his happiness because it is superficial and momentary, but the little girl's joy is genuine.
I may not regret my lack of happiness but I hate those who enjoy it in all its glory. It angers me, but I repress that anger. Anger is violence and red is a violent color. The little girl is lying in a puddle of thick red and I am gone. My apartment has been abandoned for the police to find as they will. They will derive whatever they can from it, make a pathetic attempt to track me down and then go back to problems they can solve.
I can hear the businessman screaming. He was the one who found the little girl. He doesn't realized that what happened was a simple baptismal. I baptized the child in red. When you are born you are baptized in water, when you die, you are baptized in blood.
If blood is red, and red is the color I hate, does that mean I hate blood? I shall ponder that for a while. Of course, as I said earlier, neither I, nor anyone else, has control over what emotions are felt. But I shall ponder on what relation I have with blood nonetheless, if only for something to do.
There's a cat. It hisses and scratches at me and I baptize it as well and move on.
There is a physical sensation as I look down at my leg and realize the cat tried to baptize me as well. It is fascinating, to say the least. It brings back memories of other attempts at my baptismal, which all failed, save for the first one. I felt fire at the times of those failed attempts. Pain isn't really pain, just fire burning. I wipe the blood away on my torn pants and keep moving.
Sometimes I baptize myself in blood, with a needle. The feeling is sharp, but it allows me to meditate on it. I concentrate on the feeling described as pain and I try to find the source of it. If I can find the part of the my body that responds to the feeling and crush it, I can stop pain.
The church is almost empty. Mass finished long ago and now the only ones who are here are old women praying for their lost ones and tourists looking at the pretty stained glass windows. The confessional is ready and open to all however.
Confession is good for the soul they say, and indeed I do feel better as the young priest soaks up my sins. He thinks I am a demon and perhaps I am. He thinks I am from Hell. For a split second, he thinks I cannot be redeemed. Quickly he shakes that thought from his head, reminding himself that the Christ died so that all might be forgiven. He mentally recites the prayer of the Virgin and gives me my penance. I thank him and go to pray.
Later I see him rush from the confessional. He goes to the office of his superior and cries. I am pleased to find he does not reveal any of what I told him, though he is tempted. His superior can do little to ease his fears.
I cross myself and take my leave. I did not intentionally terrify the young priest. I simply forgot how little the human mind can comprehend and still remain sane. I make a resolve that next time I go to confess I will take the ear of an older man.
No, if I told my sins to an older priest he would probably have a heart attack. Never mind. If I baptize others I prefer it to be in circumstances I decide, not those decided by an old man's poor health.
A man robs me. He stabs me in my stomach and I allow him. He wants my wallet and doesn't realize I carry no such thing because I have no need for money. He needs money to pay for his drugs. I do not bleed and he is shocked and scared at that fact and he turns to run. I let him go. I could baptize him, but I find myself not caring. He does not possess what can be called happiness and most likely never will. If I felt happiness, I would feel sadness now. Sorrow for the man. He is worse off than I.
Without knowing happiness I can not find sorrow. Without sadness, Happiness is elusive. It is a strange circle. Without one emotion I cannot feel the other.
I do not see in color. Seeing only in red is the same as a dog seeing only in gray, as I have pointed out before. I feel no emotion, for if I do not feel one, how can I know what the others are? I am a husk of moving flesh empowered with an ability of insight into the minds of others. That is all I am.
But I admit, sometimes I wish I was more.
Sometimes I wish for blue and yellow.
Author's notes- This was written as an original piece, but re-reading it, I decided it could be a member of Schwartz. I think it's Farfie, but I leave it up to you. Schwartz is copyrighted Project Weiss, and the fic belongs to me.