Ceilings.
The ceiling never fails to astonish me. Some people might think it’s some weird obsessive compulsive habit, but I don’t.
You see, no matter what, each square is always perfectly in line with the one next to it, and that one above it.
Each line is always perfectly straight.
Never one too small or too wide.
Always perfect.
Every night at exactly 1:12 a.m., I look up at the ceiling and find comfort in the way it is organized. So many squares, yet they all fit perfectly within each other. Circles wouldn’t be able to do that. Just squares. Squares have the ability to make the ceiling look perfectly organized without trying too hard. And that’s only the beginning!
I look up, and all i see is white. Everything is washed in white except for the small cracks between each square, which are all perfect, black, even straight lines. Black and white. The perfect composition of colors, lacking the deception and gaudiness of primary colors. So uniform, so calming. Screaming equilibrium. So perfect.
And then sometimes, I try to count every square but I get lost in the way every square is exactly the same size. Not like some abstract art painting, where squares are different sizes and lengths, but like the purest mathematical proportion where every square perfectly aligns with each other. I marvel at this concept. An equation of perfection.
I wonder how many people bypass this kind of perfection, to instead, close their eyes and get lost in the haze of pre-sleep thoughts. The disorganization. The frenzy; the chaos. I wonder about the myriad of people who lose themselves in their imperfect mess of thoughts instead of just glancing up at the perfection above them. They are truly missing out.
Every night at 1:12 a.m., I look up at the ceiling and find comfort in the way it is organized. So many squares, yet they all fit perfectly within each other. Circles wouldn’t be able to do that. Just squares. Squares have the ability to make the ceiling look perfectly organized without trying too hard. How perfect.
…Right?
I pretend that this is perfect.
I lie to myself every night about this perfection.
I pretend that the cracks between the squares are nothing but cracks.
That the half-square in the corner right above my window is perfectly proportionate to every other square.
And that the slight peeling is meant to be there.
I ignore the fact that some lines are too wide, creating a gap, or too small, melding some squares together.
I pretend that each square is perfectly in line with the one next to it,
and that one above it.
that each line is perfectly straight.
Never one too small, or one too wide.
Night after night, I pretend that this perfection, this reality, is truly captivating.
And to be honest, I only pretend that the ceiling never fails to astonish me, because it is the only thing to distract me from the fact that it’s been almost one month since I’ve woken up without you next to me.
