There are at least a dozen other things that I could be writing about right now, maybe even two dozen. Twenty-four other things that I could be describing and digging through—my future, my past, my present, make it thirty-six! A dozen stories for the trio, but my brain can’t get past any of it. I’m a train set off to paradise, but there’s some sort of trouble, you see, there’s a problem, so there’s been a little delay—sorry for the inconvience, but we’ll get to Such and Such sooner or later or never. I’m not a mechanic. I don’t know what’s wrong.
What’s the matter?
Well, doc, you see, I keep seeing things.
Seeing things, eh? Continue, please…
I keep seeing these dots.
Just dots? Nothing else?
Sometimes when I close my eyes I see them. They’re always there.
Those are called eye floaters. It’s a minor inconvience—sorry for the inconvience, there’s a little delay. What else is the matter?
There are at least a dozen other things that could be the matter, but let’s just talk about the floaters.
Sometimes, when I get really weird, I like to stare off ahead and lose focus. My vision is pretty shitty to begin with, so it’s not all that hard to separate the images. And sometimes it’s so bright that I see a little yellow blob right in the corner of my field of vision, this little splash of pure color that stains the world and sweeps past the line of houses on my street, unaware that they exist. Watching that little sweep of color makes me question if the houses really do exist.
When I close my eyes the splotch of color is still there, bobbing along in dark waters.
Sometimes, when I get really interested, I like to press my hands to my eyes ever so gently. A kalidoscope of color bursts forward from the black like fucking fireworks. All the images that I just saw condensed to true form, floating shapes of color. The yellow changes to blue changes to pink changes to red, and I focus real close in on the form and it expands.
Words won’t do to describe such art.
Sometimes I feel like words won’t do for all the colors and shapes in the world. There’s so much going on, I want to capture it all. Even when the train leaves I can’t tell where I’m at, just long stretches of color swept across the window. And then I’m there and gone and back again, breathless and wordless. No account at all except floating shapes, unaware that they exist.
When I close my eyes the color is still there, bobbing along in dark waters.
I’m not a psychiatrist. I don’t know what’s wrong.