Paint

 Much like the Monster in Frankenstein, we all share a feeling of ever changing environment. The monster doesn't truly understand the environment around him and I am not sure I do either. The world changes so often. Nothing remains the same for very long, or at least it never seems long enough.

It is like the experience I attain after I become acclimated to a room with new paint. When the new color wears off, a desperate knocking at the door draws me close to the door and when I open it you say hello. After a nice visit I return to the room to find that the walls have changed again. "Dammit, not again." I almost feel sorry for myself, but its all relative right? Its just a color, the physical space is still the same aside from the nanometer thick paint that has made the room that much smaller.

Another knock at the door. I am drawn from my pen, and answer the calling. This time, there is only a package at my feet. Not really a package, but a cardboard box with tape over the end to keep the contents inside. Whatever. Still a box. I sarcastically swear under my breath and welcome the box past the threshold. With a flick of the wrist and a slashing of the tape, the contents of the box is revealed. A single match.

 I rush back to my cell to find that the walls are soaked with some kind of liquid. I put my finger to the wall but instead of the normal finger-bending hardness that a wall typically produces I find something different. The wall seems to shake my hand, actually forming a hand. I'm taken aback by this strange occurrence. With my free left hand I dig into my pocket only to find that nothing is there. I push back with all the might I can muster, and break free of the walls clutches. I go back to my package and pluck the match its resting place.

As I walk back to my hell, I understand why the walls crumble with light pressure. They are soaked with gasoline. Who would do this to me? Who would send me this package? Why the hell did they send me a  single match? I don't understand. I thought I was supposed to save this dwelling, but the only tool I've been provided with can either light my way or destroy the demon that grabs at me. What am I to do? More hands come out of every wall. They grab for me. They try to suck me in.

I sit in the middle of the room, far away from their reach. I ponder reality and my place in this world. The hands that grab are too easy: not the path I want to follow. I strike the match on my jeans, and throw the burning dream over my back. I watch as the room around me turns to flame, but I am unaffected. One of the hands reach out with one final act of defiance. It makes a symbol that we are all too familiar with.

At that moment, I wake up from a dream/nightmare no more enlighten than when my head hit the pillow that night.