Varieties of Blue

Cassandra Richards

Looking down at the keyboard sometimes is the hardest thing I could ever do. I look at the white ink encraved in the black buttons and I stare, my eyes tracing the lines of the symbols. They stare back unmovingly, as if mocking me, taunting me. I feel my fingers twitch and I ache to hear the faint sound of skin pressing gently on them. These times I feel the most honest I ever am. Like, if my friend Sid Grahams asked me if I was the one who accidentally spilled the fact that he had a huge crush on Nicole Harper, the conceited blonde that sat next to me in Biology class, I'd probably confess.

Writing is lying; writing is another pretty, glorified word for lying. It's based on the ability to use the imagination in order to come up with the most creative, ridiculous and magical lies one can think of, and gently lie them in paper. It's whispering it to a person, and I've found that people will believe anything as long as it's not said out loud while avoiding eye contact, for fear of being called out on your lie.

For writers, it's April Fool's day. Every 24 hours, of every day of every week. One year after the other. And the writers are mad jokers, looking everyday to find our own lost Alice. Whether to fool them or to follow them, it is unknown. After all-

Everybody prefers a lie over the truth.

Writing is lying. Lying is a sin. So why do we lie? It's a question that haunted me for a long time, made me fall prey of my own thoughts. I no longer knew if I was the mad hatter, confused by the morality or the foolish Alice, manipulated by the mentality surrounding me. Meaning my own mind.

There is no greater fear; no greater pain, numbness and despair than having to live with and love the hollowness.

It's a good thing then, that I am such a gifted liar.

***

There are some days that you just can't forget. Some days that you keep in a special section of your brain, one after the other neatly organised in an order that seems to change from time to time and you never seem to remember, just like the most important date of the month. (Ugh, I hate that.) I'm never quite sure if mine are CD-s stored in a banged up judebox, or hardback books, all ripped pages and worn out leather backs, missing pages that were lost deep down. I keep rereading them in all the strangest of times, like Chemistry classes, or when I'm laughing during lunch, when Sid buys four mini-pizzas because he claims to 'need cheese if he wants to keep smiling'; I can't help it, the songs stuck in my head too tempting to not dance along, careful not to spill out the lyrics.

When my father was around, he used to tell me that memories were the esence of human beings. That they held truth and individuality. Memories were powerful knowledge and a dangerous weapon. I always thought he didn't make a lot of sense, but then again, I never quite listened to his long lectures about responsibility and character. During summer vacation, he'd call me to his office, a small room next to his and mom's bedroom where he spent most of his time working on various projects and paperwork. He'd sit me on his wooden chair that resembled ones you would find in old royal castles, all artfully carved wood, light yellow, as if it was actual gold, and it always made me feel so small. It was also incredibly uncomfortable, even with the creamy pillows.

The office was suffocating all around the year; even with the beige painted walls, it was almost always dark, sunlight barely getting in from the one small, square window of the room. And even that when mom was allowed inside in order to clean and she never forgot to dust the blue curtains, pulling them away and hanging them on two little handlers on each side of the glass, both decorated with a lion's face and fake diamonds. (I still believe them to be fake no matter what Cody says)

In the middle of July however it was worse. My palms prickled with sweat and the air felt too heavy and scorching.

My father would lean on his desk, usually wearing a navy blue suit, sometimes he'd take the jacket off, throwing it carelessly on the couch next to the glass, coffe table, but he'd leave the vest and black charvet tie on.