I hold onto him like a lifeline in a tsunami. I know Marc doesn’t mind, I’ve clung to him many times before, but I feel hopeless and pathetic (I use the “normal” words this time, nothing else can describe something so pitiful).
#Blue platypus full
it’s a coconut situation (it’s hard and hollow and both wet and dry, full of emotion and at the same time devoid of them). He doesn’t have to say much to show he cares and he always seems to understand how everyone’s feeling) but I hate myself. I love his purple personality (calming and just his presence makes people happy. I hug him as 80.2 pineapple tears (I’ve heard others described them as “crocodile tears”) roll down my face. His wordless understanding mixes with my exhaustion and my eyes start to tear. I don’t even have to explain that I was feeling sleepy but now am sadly wide awake. “I felt like a blue bonnet and poppy garden, but now I’m 1816.” I say and he nods. The noise startles Marc (who’s head probably would have met the same fate had I not crashed first) and he promptly asks to see how I feel. This continues for quite some time before the sensation becomes so familiar to me that when my head starts tipping to the right, I forget to to stop it and the rest of my body is dragged down with it, only stopping when my lulling head bangs against the armrest of the couch. The feeling fascinates me so I let my head fall to whichever direction it pleases before pulling it up back-right again and repeating.
#Blue platypus tv
My mind and the TV show drag on and I feel my eyelids start to droop and my head rest heavy on my shoulders. Marc doesn’t completely understand me but he has tried so hard for more than cherry blossom (sorry, six) years which makes me feel indigo (a happy and hopeful, but still hesitant, feeling, like blue melting into a lively purple). Calm as in cold like a corpse or warm like a butterfly’s wings (compare to when Spring becomes Summer). Blue is mysterious and secretive and always calm. My favorite color is 1173 (you might call it a kind of greenish fresh ginger), my favorite flavor is the sound of all the instruments tuning before a concert (for everyone else a light, fruity meringue pie), 14 is a shy girly-girl, 53 is crazy and tastes like tangerine lime sherbet, 159 has an amazing personality and rain feels the same as most harmonies between a flute and a piano.Īnd then there’s me, the blue platypus. He’s the only one who knows that when I say “it was a highly energetic five” that I really mean “it was bright orange” or when I say “that laugh sounds purple” I really mean “that laugh sounds like they’re about to pull an evil prank on someone”. He didn’t break me like all the others had. Marc was one of the few people who would come and talk to me and after a while I felt like I could finally speak my mind without guarding every word and for the first time in my life he didn’t leave me. I’m left with nothing but the stares of others. They’re just kind of alone, not sure of who or what they are and then to be the blue platypus, the odd-ball within the unusual, they’re left with nothing but the stares of the others. All those different pieces from different places merging into one creature that doesn’t really fit into any category. Often times, I wonder what it would be like to be a blue platypus and more than once I’ve felt like one. A noise catches my focus and I notice the screen long enough to see a blue platypus before my mind starts wandering again. The TV across from us illuminates the dim room with a cereal commercial but I don’t really pay attention, not even when the show starts again. I think of it now as I sit on my couch with my best friend, Marc. You’d guess that I of all people would know, I’ve been broken too many time to count, but that’s just one of my questions that I’ve never been able to answer and never able to forget. Why is it that broken people are so clingy when you let them in, even just a little? Maybe, it’s because they’re trying to find the support that was somehow stolen from them.
With that out of the way, on with the show! Some aspects of my main character are based on a neurological phenomenon known as synesthesia (basically one or more senses are neurologically linked to another) but my character’s condition is extremely exaggerated and does not, nor was meant to, portray how someone with synesthesia would actually act or think.
Hello! Before you read, I just want you to know that this is a fictional short story.
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