and my fingers go marching on...

I used to barrage the floor with my heels, echoes of clack and click bouncing through my head till the humming quieted. I used to look upward and let the sun burn my eyes through my lids, seeing patterns and colors fall down the inside of the closed world I inhabit with my eyes closed. I used to take breathes until my ribs hurt, sucking in the textbook dusty air and choke on the smell of illegal activities and hormonal sweat. And I used to obsess over fleeting moments and polish them like a valuable jewel, but they turn out to be coal. I heard once that if you press coal hard enough it would turn into diamond, I then heard they were wrong. Coal just dirties your fingers. 

Now wind blows through my eyes sockets and my eyebrows don't move. I watch and observe, memorize, but never repeat. I am forever vigilant, but never present.

And I would just wish that blue could not be the color of the sky, because it reflects things. It reflects us.
I don't want to be blue.