Conscientiousness

I find myself standing in the middle of the road, facing a barrier of mahogany trees. To my left is a welcoming blanket of small yellow leaves on the ground, waiting for the others to fall from the tree. 

To my right, I see two paths: one covered in green wild grass taller than I am, and the other, a dead end. 

Above are thin brushstrokes against a canvas so blue that, for a moment, I think I hear waves.

The colors of reality scream at me as if I've lived in black and white, muted dreams all along—until the scent stings my nostrils, like everything we put on our bodies to mask our humanity, expelled all at once by a blob that was holding it all in for forty-two  years.

The smell of leaves, freshly cut grass and sunlight on hair and skin burns. 

I see red: bright, enveloping, causing me to palpitate in fear of the living.

"I am an X in an indeterminate equation. And that X is the rock upon which I stand." - Mario Puzo