You come to this place and see hills you can never walk upon, trees you cannot sit beneath, and a sky that will never cover you again. The curtains are blue and it reminds you of an argument you had in high school with the teacher about the meaning of writing and the meaning of words and the meaning of intent.
Sometimes, you said, the curtains are blue.
Sometimes the curtains are blue and it means nothing. Blue is a black word on a white page. The curtains are blue because the author wanted them to be blue.
Sometimes, she said, the curtains are blue.
Sometimes the curtains are blue and it means everything. The curtains are blue because blue is sadness and loss and the color of an ocean as deep and wide as the pain felt in countless holes in countless hearts. The curtains are blue because the author needed them to be blue.
As you sit in this room, your hands touch the curtains and you feel the thin fabric between your fingers, and you wonder about the meaning of it all.
These curtains are blue.
You are alone now, but if someone was here, would the curtains be blue? Or are they blue because you are here, and their true form is a black void upon a black canvas until an eye sees them and then they are blue?
The curtains are blue, and you find yourself crying because they are blue and blue is sadness and loss and the color of an ocean as deep and wide as the longing within your heart. It's a stupid reason to cry.
But the curtains are blue—
And the tears fall until there is nothing left but your shuddering breaths and puffy eyes and the curtains now clutched in your fist. A small laugh escapes you. What a silly reason to be crying— blue curtains.
This place is only an empty room with one window and blue curtains. Beyond that, it is nothing special. Just another place that plays upon your longing for home.
You turn and go back the way you came, but before you do, you turn back, take one last look—
Are the curtains still blue?