Colby Miller Is An Idiot

Fluorescent

My eyes fly open and the world I lived in disappears. My alternative reality, or timeline, more appropriately, is dead. What shells of people I knew there, an expression of my lack of creativity and shallowness. Oh well, they are dead now, too. They have no thoughts, just limbs attached by strings to my fingertips which pull and twist to create motion and dance. The choreography is inspired by the media I view, so unintelligent and un-glowing, dripping un-satisfaction into my average and menial life, I bathe in fluorescence. Whiter white, blacker black. I immediately shame myself and turn towards my wall. There is nothing as far as I can tell and the people spewing information are making me queasy and I can no longer sleep at night. My nightmares come alive in the silence and solitude of night, taking advantage of a mind not distracted. Here I come, Fear. Here I come. I’ll leave the light on tonight, because I know it hurts your eyes, bathing in fluorescence.

My reality

Every once in a while I jolt out of sleep and turn to face my reality. My cage, my sanctuary. A laptop rests on the bed side table, my friend. The door is locked shut, for privacy. And cables flood my desk, possibly representing my hopeless desire to make a connection with something, anything. But it’s not that complicated. It never is. It never will be.

I toss and my phone intelligently asks if I’m awake with a polyphonic tone, sprawling artificial light across the wall. I ignore it’s call and lie still until it sleeps again, soundly. It awaits my command.

The blanket only half covers me, and I find myself uncomfortably caught in between cold and hot, neither eagerly awaiting an embrace, both comfortable with each other. They need to stop being so friendly. There is no contrast in this room.

A calculation runs through my head. If I fall asleep at this instant, I can wake up at this time well rested. I should give myself thirty minutes though, or so. Re-calculate. That’s too late. It’s not worth it. Should I not sleep? The concept is frightening to me anyway. Losing control. Giving you the keys. Letting you think for yourself. How dare you affect my body this way, you are making things difficult and you are making me sit funny. 

Good night, though. The blinds are shut for you.

poem? or something.

Hollow walls

My shout reverberates

Loudly, replacing silence

The once lively structure

Is a body with no heartbeat

Each empty room

Represents the hollow truth

Mathematical and cold, we follow

Blindly in chorus, accepting

Of the written word

One man’s answer

Became all our truth

Stray from the crowd

A fool, you’ve made

So unimportant, you claim

The memorization of

My fate

little sad

i’m a novelty.

oh look, at my little frown. what’s wrong?

write it down. sing it for us. what’s got you down, baby?

what’s it this time?

i got you.

oh look, at my little cry. my little fall. my little harm.

i got you.

oh look, at my little hurt. my little despair. my little nothing.

paint us a picture, call it your art.

you’re so talented. you’re little frown is so much more than it appears.

it’s a little word. a little song. a little note. a little dollar.

make it happy, now. your novelty is over.

you were sad, weren’t you?

but that’s no fun. we need smiles.

you’re little frown. little sad. little tear.

it’s getting in the way.

can you smile?

my little smile, my little laugh

it all seemed so present before, didn’t it

now pressed, it’s all coming to, isn’t it

now down, it’s all dying soon, isn’t it

now frown, it’s all normal

your high is over.

i picked up my little sad and pat it on the back, put it on

hello mask, can i wear you again?

“no” she said

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Anonymous asked: Not a question -- just a comment to say that you're really creating art here. It's great.

That is a great compliment and I appreciate it. Thank you.

diary two

“Can you draw me a picture of how you feel right now?” the therapist asked me.

“Yes.” I replied.

I was seventeen years old, sitting at a table, drawing my feelings on a piece of paper using colored pencils. The therapist watched me carefully, noting the colors that I used, as if it were telling. Was it?

I was finished in a matter of seconds. The therapist leaned closer, examining the inane scribblings of the hormonal teenager. Could it have been hormones? She looked at me, then back to the paper, then back to me.

“What is the yellow?” she asked.

“Happiness.” I replied.

One From The Archives: Cold Dead (high school writing)

I am sitting here.
I am here, but I am somewhere else.
My mind is trying to move but I won’t let it, which makes me quite disorientated. Could this be caused by my complete exhaustion?
I sit here and I must look like I am swaying back and forth, side to side, inches from falling off of my chair. But I am sitting still.
My eyes can focus but I only see images of what is, everything loses it’s depth and the world is an uncomfortable background to my eyes.
When I close my eyes I go numb and everything no longer exists. My head spins in the darkness until I get sick, then I jump up, gasping for air and gripping my numb hands until my heartbeat returns to an almost normal rate. Every sound and sight is new, and every sound and sight is a sign of my failing mind.
Pains I felt before are now fatal. Eventually my arm goes numb and I know that it’s a heart attack combined with the brain tumor I’ve had my entire life combined with the fact that the room is closing in on me and soon I will suffocate.
I wonder which will kill me first.
I fear death. And every second I am closer.
But it doesn’t matter because I’m dead. Cold dead and my mind still races, my heart still pumps, and I’m shaking. Cold dead the entire way home. Cold dead as my life was taken over by something inexplainable and dark.

Sadness vs. Depression

My stomach hurts. My chest is heavy. These are symptoms of sadness. Not depression.

Depression is different than sadness. The former is eternal, the latter is temporary. Anyone who says depression can be temporary is wrong.

My sadness is a memory that doesn’t even belong to me. How inconvenient.

Every time

Every time I think of you I get the pungent smell and taste of marijuana in the back of my throat and in my nose, as if you’re sitting across from me, hopelessly exhaling away from me, like you’re protecting me from something. I picture your face, unsatisfied. Your permanent scowl. I remember your voice, feminine and insensitive.

Every time I hang out with old friends from high school, the topic is inevitable. Where did he go? Where is he? One of us will joke and say, “he’s dead,” and we will all laugh. Lately I’ve started to believe that you probably are dead. They say your friend is dead, too.