New Material...

Maybe, says the cynical part of my brain, materialism makes people want to make everything more complicated, more intricate, more involved. That’s why staring at “New Document” on my computer screen is frustrating—because I am innately materialistic, and therefore do not like blankness. I want something tangible, that screams “Color!” or “Love!” or “Blood and guts!” like a bad movie. Maybe my senses have been dulled and I need to have as much sensory input as possible, to keep my 21^st century, technological, beef-guzzling faculties interested. White is simply too subtle for my Westernized self.

                Humans are innately creatures of progress—we want more, and we want to produce. There are many things that prove the worth of humans and their ingenuity, although increasingly this need for production and the idea that “more is better” is proving to be diabolical and, some would say, humans’ downfall. Maybe it stems from this idea that humans need to produce and make better, but sometimes the things they—we—make or improve make hard work, and therefore this same ingenuity, a moot point. The decrease in demand for hard, especially manual, work, allows people to become lazier and put all their trust in some form of technology. And, as we all know, technology is not foolproof.

                But I digress. This need for production makes me subconsciously want to fill a paper, or something bigger, with ideas or marbles or whatever the receptacle was meant to hold. Is this want, or need, product of social materialism? Is it an innate craving that is part of being human? Or is it just me, accustomed to meeting deadlines and being frustrated when the words don’t automatically craft themselves into an essay before my eyes?

                Whatever the reason, I know that many people feel the need to complete things. However, my discussion of blankness is not yet complete. 

My Mind's A Blank

White pages are intimidating. The blankness is so… Blank. It longs for words to fill it, ideas to bring it to life. This blankness, this absence that confronts people, often when they wish to do away with it, makes putting pen to paper a little more difficult. Why would I adulterate this clean sheet with my thoughts, and then scratch them out when they don’t ring true?

Blankness is made to be filled. There is nothing more satisfying to me than seeing my printer spit out sheets covered in word-processed thoughts. Yes, part of the satisfaction comes from seeing the word processor make sense of my thoughts and then push them into physical being, but the sense of achievement is also that I have filled something, that this sheet which was once so uniform is now overflowing with ideas and words, or even just meaningless characters. 

                White is purity. Don’t think white supremacy, or some virgin chained to a rock, about to be devoured. But white is simple. It is blank. It is ready for something else to come and overshadow it, cover it with characters or colors or ketchup stains. A white piece of paper positively invites me: “Come on, this uniformity is so boring, let’s spice it up a bit.” White needs something of another color to make it white, a stark black line to make the remainder of the paper look cleaner. But that’s not why we fill it. We don’t cover something in black to make the rest of it appear white.

                Most people like to fill things. It gives a sense of, well, fulfillment. A white paper lying on a desk is not there so people can admire its whiteness. White house walls don’t look truly lived in until there is a painting or a chair or a five-year-old’s fingerprint to break up the blankness. Some might say that purity is there to be made impure, and others might say that they just feel nervous wearing a white shirt until they’ve spilt red wine on it. Whether it’s conscious or unconscious, people want to put more into the white, so it’s not just white, it’s writing or painting or the signal that once their child was five. Maybe it feels friendlier, or maybe people just like to fill up things so they feel more accomplished. And accomplishment is what we are all striving for. 

And I have more to say, but I think I'll say it later. 

Clean

This room is very white. The walls positively reek of purity, and the sunlight that streams in through my one small, high window seems ersatz, filtered. My bed against one wall is sparse, the covers perfectly taut over the one pillow. I look at it with a mixture of loathing and love. My haven, where I lie each night--and day--protects me from the looming evil that is the outside world. Only within its safe white boundaries do I feel truly safe. The rest of the room can offer me no comfort. There are no books, no instruments, no photographs, for they could trigger an unexpected episode. And that is why I am here. The prevention of episodes.
At the same time I detest my bed, hate its safe confines that make it so easy and comfortable to hide. When I look up and out toward the great unknown, and wonder why I am here, I can hide under a sheet. The longing goes away then, or at least it is dulled into submission. Then the guilt begins. Who am I to think I can hide, here in my safe white room, far away from those brave souls who venture out into society every day, take its sorrows and joys, make it their own? Who am I to think that I even deserve this, when I am too cowardly to step outside? Why am I sitting here on this perfect bed?
I long for imperfection. And then the thought of it makes me scream.
Death, and loss, and risk, and hate and war and all the things I know prevail outside my room, seep into my mind. I am safe here. I know I am. Protected by my bed and my nurses and the clean, beautiful white walls. There is nowhere better for me--the dirt and sweat and tears of reality are too much for me. Even the ones I loved are no more--I cannot escape the pain of that. Life is one big descent, and everyday I was spiraling deeper. Down and down, and the fear that I saw and foresaw nailed me to my bed, until I could not rise.
Even the nurses, accustomed as they are to dealing with people like me, are nervous. They do not speak, just offer me my unintimidating gruel and scuttle away. They are afraid of scaring me, and then listening to my sobs as I begin to recall the terror that every corner brings.
I look up toward the mysteriously filtered sunlight, and I long to feel the wind. Maybe a particle of dust will touch my eye, and I will embrace it. I want another human's touch, flawed and wonderful. I want to see an unmade bed and hear a baby cry, and I want to feel water that is icy cold and salty, not tepid and bland.
I want to feel alive again, not this colorless, moping half-life. I want to feel the joy of rushing down a dirty city street, feel the hum of emotions and the chaos--nothing is forever, but everything is for now.
Maybe, someday, by looking up at my window, I will feel alive again.