Color In the lines

Maybe it's about the endless mundanity of suburban lines. Or perhaps it's about escaping the strangeness of our dwellings. Maybe it's diving into the water of our ancestors' dreams, transcending the strange things we draw around ourselves, and swimming. Maybe nothing justifies this marsh mucking.

We frame it just so: an expansive sunrise, happiness, mundanity, coastline, a winding road disappearing behind a hill, and the hill vanishing into the edges of our clay frame. Whirling wheels and whirling paths, broken down eyes sputter across these hills. The mirror glances back at a blue house. When our loves leave us, will we stroll through town whistling? Will we leap up for joy? Terror? How high can a man jump? Each man jumps, and if he reaches his own ceiling he feels something, perhaps joy, perhaps regret for having bumped his head.

You stroll outside, to watch these whistlers and jumpers. To the right, a grinning policeman attends to our injured head-bumper. Ahead, a steep green decline towards the verdant pond. Above, birds, you imagine (you dare not look up). You turn left towards some stranger dwelling, cobblestone in myriad browns beneath your slate grey shoes. Unlocking the door, you hear a cherry car whizz away. The policeman grimaces, but returns to the injured. Or so you imagine. You do hear the door groan in bright yellow. Inside, you think about looking up, but instead train your eyes on the calm walls. Lay down, young eyes, certain sights aren't for you. Lay on your face and close your eyes. Your garage is empty, but you think you can keep that out of the frame. A hundred heads on a hundred beds color in their own lines. And your head on your bed with your lines and your ceiling colors with yellows and greys, winding them across the page to the edge of the frame, and no further.