Pain leaves her body like it was never there. There, where it
resided for moments that were an eternity long. What it leaves behind, however,
is even worse: the feeling of indifference; of restlessness; of implied
resentment. She defies herself, her body, her mind. Her soul seeks its breath
from outside her body trying to escape the anarchy inside. She is indifferent.
But is she really?
Indifference is like the color white. It encapsulates all
the feelings that amalgamate into one when in motion all together. From the
calm of violet to the rage of red. It ensures their participation if they
promise to retain the state of chaos. Hence, all merging into one – an
undeniable state of indifference.
But how can indifference equate the color white? How can one
even make the mistake of comparing the impure with pure? Drastic with calm?
Hideous with beauty?
Maybe that’s how it is.
We are obsessed with giving different meanings to things.
With assuring distinctions. What if there are no distinctions? What if
indifference is a process? What if white indicates a process too? A process of
understanding what we already know and accepting what is there before us. Maybe,
that is why they cover bodies – of those once alive – in white. Maybe, that is
why we cover our hearts – that were once alive – with indifference.
