Everywhere I go, I see blue. Everywhere I go, I hear blue. I see blue more than anything else. Blue is following me. Blue is the most popular color. Blue is my mother’s favorite color. Any one of those reasons and more could be why I always see blue. When I get mad, I don’t see red, all I see is blue. The first time someone hit me so hard that I saw stars, they were blue. Every time I am upset someone says to me, “Do you have the blues?” Every word in every sentence that I ever heard is blue. I don’t even associate the right word with the right color anymore. I see purple and say “blue.” I see yellow and say “blue.” I see orange and say “blue.” I see my favorite color, green, and say “blue.”
Every time I eat or drink something, it is blue: cheese, chips, corn, Gatorade, Hawaiian Punch, and blueberries. I hate blueberries. I don’t like the taste. There are few foods that are blue, and I am starving. I can’t watch all my favorite films anymore because the only films that I can find have blue in the title: Blue Jasmine, The Blue Lagoon, Blue Crush, Blue Thunder, Blue Hawaii, Blue Streak, Blue Steel, My Blue Heaven, Devil in a Blue Dress, Betty Blue, Blue Valentine, Dancing at the Blue Iguana, Blue City, The Blue Lamp, The Blue Bird, and Blue Juice.
I go outside to gaze at the sun and see a great big blue ball of fire in the sky. Every house and car I pass is blue. Blue, blue, and blue. It is like I am in the land of the blue. I check the date on the calendar and on all twelve pages it says, “blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue.” Every time I turn on the radio, it plays Blue Swede’s “Hooked on a Feeling.” I try to tell everyone that a dark kitsune is haunting me and they say, “You’re blue.” I shower to clear my head and the water turns my skin blue; my complexion resembles a smurf and Avatar. I could be an extra for either one of the next films.
I open my mail, get a papercut, and blue blood drips from my index finger. I say to myself, “What in the world is going on? Blood is red, not blue.” I go see my doctor and she draws some blood. She says, “Your blue blood is fine like your blue eyes.” I jump from my seat and say, “What? My eyes are brown, not blue.” I look into the mirror and my eyes are blue. I don’t know anything anymore: the only thing I know for certain is that the sky is blue, but not the grass. I don’t know what the truth is anymore. I guess the secrets to life are in the deep blue sea.
Shamar English is originally from Santa Barbara, California, but he lives in Douglasville, Georgia. He has an Associate of Arts Degree in film from Georgia State University. He is currently pursuing his bachelor’s degree at Georgia State University. He has pieces published in Literally Stories, Better Than Starbucks, The Writing Disorder, The Mystic Blue Review, EskimoPie.net, Not Your Mother’s Breast Milk, Susan/The Journal, and Litro Magazine.
