The Hospital

White. Everything is that pure, sterile color. It’s the kind of white that makes you feel dirty. The kind of white that begs of you to be pure, to be clean, to be faultless and unsullied; yet at the same time relegates you to forever be defective and impure in contrast to its perfection. Everything in the room I am in is that horrendous hue. The seamless walls, the smooth and unbroken floor, the slab of a door, even the chair I am strapped to is that color.

But I know it won’t be for long.

The door begins to jiggle. I gaze up at the harsh, fluorescent light. Will this be the closest thing to sunshine I’ll ever see again?

I don’t look at the Doctor as he enters the room. I hear the steady, calm clapping of his shoes on the white floor. He draws near. I refuse to look at him. I already know his appearance: white scrubs, white apron, white gloves, white surgical mask and cap, and black goggles. I remember staring into those goggles as he began his first surgery. This will be the fifth. I am a seasoned veteran. He has actually told me that he is surprised I have lasted so long. He’s had me the longest.

The Doctor takes my face in his white-gloved hands, he holds it in the position I had initially been keeping it in and straps down my chin and forehead. He then uses some kind of metal device to pin both of my eyes open. I continue to stare at the light. That’s what you have to do. That’s how you survive. I imagine myself floating up into the white light, I imagine myself flying far, far away from here.

Suddenly, the Doctor’s face eclipses the light, my salvation. I see something in his hand; it appears to be an ice cream scooper. He bends over and directs his weapon at my left eye.


Then nothing.

Black. Everything is that distant, desolate color.

High Ramblings about Desires

Source: Urban Dictionary: Pilot Jones


I want a house in the mountains. Honestly, I don’t care if it is in the Rockies or the Appalachians, or even if it is out of this country. I just want to wake up, overcast sky, occasional rain showers, poor a cup of coffee spiked with Kho Loui or rum, smoke a blunt or joint or two. Sit at my desk, laptop out, mountains and trees gazing at me through the window directly behind the desk, cigarette hanging from my mouth, and start writing. I want to be a writer, I want my career to be as an author. I want to be paid to sit at my desk in the mountains all day and just enter another world. Don’t get me wrong, there is so much on this planet I want to experience, I want to see everywhere, I thirst for adventure and journeys. But I also have my head in the clouds. I want to see all these places so I can use them in stories. I want to feel all these emotions so I can transmit them to paper in my house in the mountains.


-High Ramblings of a Stoner