From My Couch...
2003-08-28 @ 11:57 p.m.
Lounging lazily, sleep drenched, tired, and I'm home from school. I'm finally back home from school. Eyes half-lidded, quarter moons on my face, the sign that said to all, "I'm tired".
Fatigue overcame me, in all its different facets, in all its different colors, sounds, and shapes. I began to slow down, and I caught myself yawning. My eyelids felt heavy, leaden, and they would drop to meet the lower lid with every chance available. Sleep consumed me as my day progressed, little by little, as the sun moved across the sky, and by the time I was home, I had flopped on the couch. My couch.
Sleep was the only thing that felt logical. Sleep was the only thing that made sense now. Sprawled on my couch, I slept.
I slept through the hours of the sunny afternoon, through the cacophony of sounds heard coming from outside. I slept through my favorite shows, only to be awoken by the rough, thread material of my sofa. My couch.
My couch was my comfort, a security blanket, if you will, and the view from my couch was better than any ever seen.
I saw my life, the way it should be seen. My life, watched from the front row, viewed from my couch.
I awoke on this couch, groggy, disoriented, only to see semi-recognizable shapes, blurred shapes, and semi-coherent sounds, hazy, distant sounds.
The lights were off, and the glow of the television shone white in the small room. Everything seemed to move in this flickering light. Everything seemed alive.
The couch was a deep gray in this light, though it was red by day, by day and by light. The fabric was coarse, stiff, wiry and scratched against my skin. This was the kind of couch that would become your best friend during the cold, wintry months. It was always warm. It was always cozy, like a fleece sweater.
The light played with the picture frames, and from my position on the couch, they seemed to move. The people and objects in the paintings and portraits seemed to move. They adjusted the buttons on their shirts, made 'small talk' with people standing next to them, they even fixed their hair. They knew they had to look their best, for they were always on display, and I on display for them.
I smelled incense coming from somewhere in the house, so I let myself melt into the fragrance of vanilla and lavender. It drifted in the air, becoming stronger, and stronger still, until it began to fade, fade away. No smell was left.
I half-listened to the senseless ramblings coming from the people on the television screen. Sounding hysteric, desperate. Maybe they were trapped in this little box? Maybe they were trapped inside of my television? They might have been calling out for help, but I paid them no attention, I was too caught up with other things. I was too caught up with the sound of the cars outside, the sound of traffic.
I caught myself staring out the window, out into the backyard. I stared at the grass, at the trees and shrubbery, at the flowers in their little pots. One, in particular, stood out. It was a sunflower, a single sunflower, with a brown face framed by a halo of little, yellow petals. It didn't look right, standing alone in the dark, in its painted, green pot. It seemed out of place.
Everything looked different in the dark. Everything looked different at night. Blades of grass weren't green, but gray, and shone, extraordinarily, by the light of the moon and the streetlights.
My eyes scanned across the small room, I pulled them away from the view outside of my window. I stared down at my legs and stretched them out in front of me. I stared down at the couch. My couch. Then I looked around, all over. There was a smaller sofa off to a corner of the room, cluttered with my school materials. It was gray. Everything was gray.
The white walls were gray, the white tiled floor was gray, I only saw gray. I was gray. Uneasily, I held a pen between my fingers, and stared at a notepad resting on my lap. I wondered what to do. I wondered what to say.
I sat on the couch and looked around. My legs were scratchy from the rough material of my seat. I looked. I looked at my life, the way it should be seen. I took in the view from my couch. I looked into my life in shades of gray.
Lounging lazily in shades of gray.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
This is something else I was given to write about for English. We were given the topic "write what you see from your couch", so I did.
I haven't had time for anything, I'm up until all hours of the night finishing homework, and I'm not even started with IB. I'm worried of how things will become later in the year.
Listening to: "English Summer Rain" by Placebo
Nothing ever changes
English summer rain
Seems to last for ages
everything © Claudia (2003-2008)