When I was young and clueless, I dreamed of a better world. Instead of sticks and acorns on the dusty, packed earth of the playground, I wanted garish colors: glittering holograms flashing past like a world on caffeine. Time pumped the caffeine into my world and added the internet.
It added the wonder that glued me to a chair in front of a screen like a fly to a dried-up jelly jar on its way to the landfill. The faces and fonts pulled me into a whirlpool; they pulled me down without any resistance or protest, just guiltless, shallow, fleeting fulfillment.
When the power went out yesterday, so did my life. It drained into the grey hues of the snowlight dabbling on my table. I felt a craving for that world that had fizzled out so suddenly with the blue sparks running through the wires snapped effortlessly by the limbs raining down with the white snow. I raged. I almost imploded in misdirected agony and this underestimated enemy, my addiction.
Misery. That was the only emotion I felt as I slouched in the grayness as I didn’t even try to be studious in the grayness that was impervious to the flickering candlelight. All the color was drained; the gray light slipping through the window was relentless in its quest to rob my room of color. I lay in a daze and let my eyes wander out the window. The snow falling was peaceful, so were the periodic crackings of tree limbs around the neighborhood. The silent serenity of what I saw made my rage ebb away. I must have truly seen for the first time in a long time.