almost famous

See fresh paint up dripping down the baseboard of a wall. It's blue. Teal. Red. Whatever. Whatever color you see, you live in. It's just paint. It's just the way you view everything else. What does the baseboard look like? Flat on the wall. Ridged. Ornate. Nobody knows but you. You with your sea foam green paint and designer baseboard on a wall nobody can give two shits about. But you. It's your wall. Your vision. How you see all those people that don't care what pigment your eyes are in.


See that paint smeared. Stained. All over your hand. Up your arm is this paint, whatever color. Maybe a different color. Mixed emotions of rainbows is all you see. It's always the darker color on your skin. Your hands. Up your arm. Purple. Black. Gray. Whatever. Whatever color you sense on your hand, on your skin is the color you see yourself as. Angry. Alive. Breathing. Standing still in the middle of a room. Staring at a blank wall and colored baseboard that nobody can see. Nobody but you.


See the paint rolling along the floor. Is it staining a carpet? Hardwood. Tile. Whatever. Whatever floor plan and make up your floor is, nobody cares. They're off standing in the middle of some room with their own floor. Stained arm. Dripping baseboard. They don't care that your baseboard is white on beige. Your arms are crisp, cracking with blue paint. Your carpet running with that paint, the stain is just never going to come out.


Where the fuck is the door? Does your room have a door? You're stuck. Aren't you? The door is either open. Letting you breathe fresh air amongst all these fumes on the bottom of the wall. The floor. Your flesh. Or the door is closed. And you're choking to death on your own imaginary creativity. Your mess of a mind. The door could be half open. Half closed. You're so undecided in everything. Maybe the paint on your hands is white. Clear. Neutral. Paint you any DNA. Fingerprints. You just don't know. And neither does anybody else. They're contemplating their door. The floor. Their arms and hands. The bottom of the wall.


You're not as important as what's going on in everybody else's head. Filled up with paint fumes. Ego fumes. The sunlight or raindrops crashing the window. Whether it be decorative or something to jump out of later. Everybody's trying to open it without leaving their mark behind. Because the last thing anybody would want is there to be a television in somebody else's trap of a fucking room and the local news station come on and stop wondering what News Reporter One's hand paint color would be and actually listen to her. And hear that you killed yourself.


Because you know you didn't matter.