Creaks of the bed and the cracks of bones sound the wakening of the morning as the body twists out of its restful slumber. Still, the body stays sheltered underneath the coves of blankets with the head stuck like a pinned moth to the comfort of pillows. The warm morning light starts to peek through the soft split between the creamy beige and sheer snowy curtains, creating mellow amber, apricot and sky blue-like pastels to dance around the room. The colour's appearance though becomes futile as they drown in the black screen that flickers on in the hands of the pinned body, until the ambers, apricots, and sky blues dissipate into a transparent light, a darkening gaze, into almost midnight, into a chill at the end of May. And then we question, where did the time go? As two days, a week, later a month passes by like so. Questioning why we feel so hopeless and dark when realising we've achieved nothing. Maybe we're unhappy because we're too happy.
The screen becomes a separate world and life. One that can be controlled. One that can bring a smile to our faces. But the moment we enter the other world⊠the real world, we wonder how the world is so void, lacking, so bleak and hastily step back into the screen. The black screen fuels this happiness in our lives, the dopamine, like feeding plump animals on a farm regular feed. When did this become such a necessity? As we cross busy streets in busy cities among all the busy feet, pass the buildings that touch the sky that mimic the shades of an aquarium, constructed from ideals and imaginations, walk through the breeze that carries the scarf wrapped loosely around our neck and pass the numerous signs that attempt to guide our way, only for our eyes to stare blankly at the steady pace of the grey pavement moving beneath our feet as that black screen flickering in the hands of a moth-like body.
When we finally stop and take a break from the regular load of happiness, we look around, and we're lost, lost in the world that contains everything yet nothing. We walk to the walnut-tinted table at the nearby coffee shop, pull out the cold matching chairs standing neatly underneath, and take a seat. I look at you and ask, "So before the age of social media and everything, what did people do?" You take a long pause. And realise you cannot answer the question. We dive into a conversation questioning how people found entertainment in the past, how they carried out their daily lives, without any screens⊠How did humans live?
Since when did we forget how to be human?
Creaks of the bed and cracks of bones sound the wakening of the day as the person twists out of their restful slumber but they stay snuggled underneath the coves of blankets with their head resting peacefully in the comfort of pillows. The warm morning light starts to peek through the soft split between the creamy beige and sheer snowy curtains, creating mellow amber, apricot and sky blue-like pastels to dance around the room. The colours like a prism refract in the person's eyes as they awaken still in a tranquil daze, their hand reaches for the black screen, it flickers on, 8:24 am, and it drops back silently next to the Philodendron growing on the desk, next to the covers and blankets and pillows piled on the walnut bed. Their dishevelled body rises and bare feet step onto the tile floor, making nerves flinch and muscles jerk from the sharp frosty chill that seeps up into the bones, contrary to the warm ambers, apricots, and sky blues that continue to dance around the corners of the room. The day gradually dissipates into a transparent light, a darkening blaze, into almost midnight, into a chill before the start of Spring.
As we cross busy streets in busy cities among all the busy people at different paces of their days, we pass the buildings of thick mirrors that touch the ocean painted above and present a reflection of ourselves and our scarf dancing loosely in the breeze, these buildings constructed from ideals and imaginations, dyed in blaring neons from the flashy billboards. We carry on, following the sign that says 'Park' and stroll through the breeze carried from the blooming collection of greens accumulated in parks. We arrive at the vintage-styled coffee shop almost under the towering willow tree at the far end of the park, take a seat at the walnut-tinted table and realise that we now remember the shade and colour of the pavement that moved at a steady pace beneath our feet. For that black screen was left flickering next to the Philodendron on the desk, next to the dishevelled covers, blankets and pillows on the empty walnut-toned bed. The creamy beige and sheer snowy curtains drift apart as the wind peers through, allowing for the soft pinks of the white magnolia buds in clusters along the branches of the tree, to be seen blooming as Spring breaks.