Paint my mind with pretty colors when its monotony subdues


Brea'n Thompson

We should be abstract with what we do—it’ll help us from the fruitless pit.

The twisting beauty of seeing the world in black and white for so long is an unsolicited mind-bend that permeates our thoughts. As humans, we’re wired to do as we’re told to help the bloody, brutal battle in the brain.

We’re especially reminded to obey due dates for the overwhelming list of homework, quizzes, and tests we have. We work relentlessly, day and night as overachievers, to try to produce an end result that we can somewhat tolerate, but it exceeds and tests our own capabilities. Such a detrimental mindset drives us into a fruitless pit of black, white, and all the hues of grey in between. Like a television program from the 1940s, our peers and posterity watch our lives unfold into an unimaginable, unsightly, ungodly knot. 

By the end of the day, before the kickstart of our nightly grind, we’re burnt out. Our arduous work has lasted a little, but the end of its longevity is nearing and won’t live until the end. Like a light bulb before its final flicker, we sit there impatiently waiting for that last kick of energy that, in theory, will resurrect us. 

When the sun makes its journey westbound and a sliver of moon peeks from behind a cloud, I’m exhausted. With no light, I have no sense of direction, and I’m lost in the black and white pit that serves no good in our continuous fight. The scarcity of color in this black and white pit infuriates my soul while the hues and shades of grey laugh in my face. With no color, no light, and the enraging sense of no direction, my mind is burning from the gruesome stress. 

And when the light bulb flicks its last flicker, I’ll be on the other side of the field, watching, for I have no strength to continue a fight that was never in my favor. 

And when the light bulb flicks its last flicker, I’ll be on the other side of the field, watching, for I have no strength to continue a fight that was never in my favor. ”

I tell my little naïve self to be the best student, to be the best friend, to be the best writer, to be the best ever at everything. I also have to have the best grades, have the best GPA, have the best jumps on the cheer team, have the best music taste, have the best notes, have the best test grade. 

Are any of my standards actually achievable? No. Are any of these standards a real burden for an overachiever like myself? Absolutely—every single one chips away at my mind like an ice sculpture until each standard is satisfied with my turnout. 

Lately, I haven’t satisfied any of my high standards. I haven’t done something that made me genuinely proud or ecstatic. It’s the fourth week of school, and I’m already unsatisfied with what burdens have found their way back to me. It’s stressful—exhaustingly stressful. 

In a strangely monotonous pit with no light, my mind of ice melts, and I break. 

I can try and clean the chips of ice from my head or drain the water, but no matter what, my mind will never be a carefree space. 

The same fight that’s been bleeding for years will only subdue when the nagging feeling of exhaustion rids from an overachiever like me. When that day comes, throw me a new lightbulb and a few cans of abstract-colored paint—it’s time to finally change the scenery with mosaic patterns and celebrate my rightfully earned victory.