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It sits in a white room, a white box with no doors, no desks, no chairs, but has a single window with white bars and a white curtain. There is only the carpet and the white walls . . . the white walls? Ah, even I almost forgot. These weren't always white. There was a time she picked me up so I can glide on these walls and paint vibrant tales of various things; cheerful neons with playful strokes; misty light colors that sketched the shy intricacy; stark, deep slashes of abhorrence; confused, contrasting colors swished in circular motion. These walls carried all the colors of the spectrum, divided into chapters after chapters, written with a hope--that someone will be able to glimpse the sealed stories, behind white curtains and bars, above the thousand steps of crystal staircase which spiral down underneath the white room to a spot on Earth. Yet, these walls would be covered with white, continuously. She would watch with hatred and tugging, frustrating sorrow as the white drips down until a thick coat drowned her work. An unknown force would whitewash all her days, her expressions, her pleas. I remember how she gripped me tightly while her fingernails dug deeply into her other palm so harshly that it bled. How can I forget? It becomes the past, time after time. If you look carefully, you can see shadows of once vivid lines, very mild remnants of what once has been opposition. I look at the walls. I look at her. Her eyes looked, but cannot see. This is the position she was willed to be in, within the white box . . . without sorrow, anger, chaos--without love, delight, affection. Ah, her eyes flickered! The spell breaks, and an overwhelming feeling of triumph fills me. Placid loneliness echoes in her pupils, and she picks up the giddy me. I am proud, for when she faces the wall now, she gives me a purpose of being and herself of living. Her arms lift me higher and higher . . . A noise slices through the air. We freeze. Go ahead, tell a story, it croons wickedly. It won't just harm you, but others whom you love. Her fingers tighten around me, and tremble. She shakes, uncontrollably, disgusted. At who? It? Herself? Her fingers loosen, and I fall. She walks slowly, drops to her knees, and gives the last act of expression--she cradles the music box that forgets how to sing, with a figurine that no longer remembers how to dance. Except, it was not quite the last. For no one noticed that when I fell, I broke. I lay in a puddle of fathomless dark color, untamed, free. If you peer into the window far, far way, you will see the abandoned color on whiteness. And it tells you, that above the seas, the lands, and the skies is a white music box . . .
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