Bleu II

Out of the Blue
by Charnine

"It's not real life!" I shouted. I was just so disgusted with myself and how I had let myself fall into that haze and so angry with him for being so attached to it as well and this overwhelming force of clarity was pounding its way into my head, making me cry out these revelations to myself and to him as we lay in bed waiting for sleep to finally come.

Freshman year, I lived in Gildersleeve House. We had to go to the basement and talk to the Residential Director about racism. This kid named C____ from Miami was defending his somewhat ignorant thoughts on the subject and after receiving much criticism, he cried out, exasperated, "I think about things, okay? I probably think more about things than all the rest of you!" Up to that point I didn't think well of him, and I actually don't think well of him even now, looking back on this memory, but at that moment, I felt like I understood him.

Back in Round Rock, I was at speech and debate practice after school and a girl on the team said she didn't like watching deep movies because they made her think a lot and thinking so deeply made her depressed. And I've never thought ill of her, I just never got to know her that well, I guess, but at that moment, I felt like I understood her as well. 

When I was eleven years old, I started thinking that I was the only real person in the world. Everyone and everything around me was just a figment of my imagination. My mind simply created my surroundings and its inhabitants as I moved around. What was behind my field of vision was nonexistent. Things only existed when I saw them, and even then, nothing was really real. I read a book of fiction in my middle school library about a girl who felt the same way, and I found that so frightening I had to put the book back on the shelf.

I've told this all to my psychologist, and he believes that, in my life, I have found it very hard to trust people because I have never felt truly safe with those who were supposed to take care of me. As a result, in my eleven year old mind, I came to the conclusion that nothing was real. I was alone in the universe.

When I was sixteen I went on a trip to Spain with my Spanish class. We went to an art museum and saw great works of art by great Spanish artists. Dali, Picasso, Miró. In the midst of the Spanish Civil War, these artists created their most memorable pieces. Soft Construction with Boiled Beans. Guernica. But I related most to Miró. Bleu II. Our tourguide explained that the devastation these artists felt from the daily tragedies of the war caused them to react in different ways. Miró reacted by choosing the viewpoint of an innocent child.

Close your eyes to the harsh reality surrounding you and open them again as one who doesn't know any better.