all I can see is the white of the wall

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all I can see is the white of the wall

but I don’t know why


in a rustic wood frame

just to my left

hangs a painting

the canvas filled with tree covered mountains

cascading into the bluest of lakes

high above

a bright yellow sun shines in a cloudless sky

creating a white reflection in the smooth water below

though I have seen this painting too many times to count

it no longer exists in my mind

instead I see only the white spot

the reflection



into the white wall behind it


to the right

hangs a bright orange clock

its white hands move in a fluid



but the orange is gone


all that’s left are the white hands

their movements difficult to see

against the white wall

if it weren’t for the tick tock



it would be lost to me altogether




I sit

watching as my world turns white


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