Renegadetourist

My parents house 3:49 pm

In Reflections, Writing on 2010/04/02 at 14:42
A myriad of miniscule paint droplets cover my face – scratch that, a myriad of paint droplets cover all of me, my face, my hair, my arms, little splashes from the rotation of my paint roller. The droplets also cover the protective glasses I’m wearing and I’m glad that I have them, I can only imagine how bad this stuff would be if it got in my eyes but they cloud over my vision and it is really hard to see whether or not an area is covered if your vision is misted over by paint. I am bending over backwards in a position that would be deemed unfit by most ergonomics experts if they saw it, but it is the only way to manuever the roller efficiently and I am young and strong (and will have back problems when I pass thirty).  Standing here on a ladder, in this backwards position, all I see is white, the white on my glasses, the white paint on the roller and the white of the ceiling im painting. And what is white then? Sometimes it is open bright and spacious, or it can be pure and innocent while other times it is the clinically sterile of a hospital. So which one is it that I am spreading out so methodically? I think it might be the bright and spacious of the architect but this is a kitchen after all, a place kept clean for cooking so it could also be the sterile white. Or maybe all this is pointless, maybe it is just convention, it is white because ceilings are supposed to be white. Maybe these thoughts are pointless and I should just continue painting.
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