I don't see the point of sleep anymore. I know the scientific reasoning, but artistically, adventurously, there's no point. I'm seventeen now, and I'm only twelve. I've spent a third of my life submerged in the blackness of dreams.
I've been living more, staying up later, and it's wondrous. It's like someone tinted my world Prismacolor. I think it's letting me go free.
Now there's always a beat in my blood. Drums, strings, and flutes roar in my ears, and colors are dancing at my fingertips. I tell myself I want a science-math major, but it's hard to believe when I'm trying to sit still in calc. The music in my head is screaming for me to dance, spin, jump over the desks.
I used to be that kid in the corner who finished the classwork in half the time, and then sat and read a book. I almost never finish anything now. My fingers are too busy painting and sketching the air. I look at people, and I don't always see them. I see their colors. That pêche claire, that Tuskan red, that pale gold and soft emerald green.
I think people are starting to notice. I was writing a waltz on my chemistry papers today, and my lab partner girl, the goldenrod and chestnut one, noticed. The other day I was dancing at work. It takes some minor skill to dance with a tub of dishes.
I don't care. I am that girl with her head in the galaxies. That one who cries listening to symphonies. Besides, labeling me gifted labeled me strange.
Gifted. It's a word that comes with baggage. People seem to think gifted is mathsciencesmartclever. But it's not. It's everythinganything. I heard another word today. Asynchronous. I'd rather be asynchronous than gifted. Asynchronous is a word you can spell and taste a million times before it goes sour. Gifted is old now, it's not true anymore. It's not Prisma.
I sit here and think about it, listening to drums and thinking that I can still work on my new portrait before the sun rises again.
My iPod shuffles and the finale comes on. There's a flute; bagpipe; strings, a violin probably; piano. Goosebumps race across my as the cymbals crash and the music dissolves into the waltz in my head. I'm dancing across my floor, slowly, so slowly. The lone flute, emerald green. Joined by piano, violet. The symphony again, and the full spectrum is in my ears and eyes.
Drum. Drum. Anchoring me to a world of people asleep and dreaming dreams in their blacknesses, letting years drift by, losing vitality, losing freedom, letting the Prismacolor swirl away, down the drain of glorious sleep.
I don't want to be them. I grab the deck of cards off my desk and turn them face-up, one by one. Spades for sit-ups, clubs for crunches. Diamonds for shoulder presses and hearts for push-ups. I work through them. By the time I'm done, my arms ache and I'm utterly bemused. All my hearts were teamed together.
I'm tired tonight, so I don't stay up much longer before I go to bed. It's only six hours, but it feels like eternity. It's release from daily pressure. Sometimes, it's nice to have my world be black noir, just for a little while.
And then I'm awake again. I shower, straighten my hair, mascara. I don't have enough time, so I grab an apple, a bottle of tea and run out the door.
Art is my first hour, and I wish it lasted longer. I lean over my papers, creating stories and people. I have my iPod on, so the music real this time. The bell rings too soon, and the day blurs by. We have a free day in chemistry, so I draw for a minute. I don't have the right grey to draw a rainy day, so I stop before I ruin it. I spend the rest of the time drawing Mary McDonnell and Adele.
When I get home, I'm alone. My parents are at work, my brother with his friends. I hook my iPod into the speaker in my room and blast the flutes and drums. My newest roll of paper is leaning against the doorway, so I spin it around and cover the walls with snow white. The paint tray is still on my desk. I strip down to lime spankies and a Flogging Molly tee. I don't want to waste color on my jeans.
No paintbrush is as accurate as the fingers. They spatter paint on the paper, dyeing it with galaxies and people that mix together at the edges. Sometimes, it's like I'm an observer and my fingers are painting on their own. I heard that all the faces you ever dream are at least based off people you've met, but I'd swear I've never seen these people before.
I stop at 5:15, so I can clean up before my family is home again. I wash paint off my arms, hands, cheeks, hair. I pull on clean jeans so you can't see my rainbow legs. My bedroom door is locked, key in my pocket. I go downstairs and sit at the kitchen table, pre-calc and chemistry spread everywhere. I did most of it in class, when the others were taking notes, and I'm finishing up as headlights flash through the windows and I hear the purr of the diesel engine.
When they ask how my day was, I shut my books. Smile. "Fine. Same as always." In a way, I wish they understood the music in my ears and the colors dancing on my fingertips. But it's safer this way. I am free.
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