Comfort Musing of a Television

Against the backdrop of a swaying tree stood a stationary black screen called TV. It was short for Television, but he wasn’t used to being called the latter anymore. Was it his mother, or her sister, who had last referred to him thus back in around ‘08? 

He knew he had a light somewhere, but it often got tough to locate. His mien was too dark to get past sometimes — beyond that was a crow-coloured skin with a deflecting heart. 

On most days, the internal fuzziness would run a constant loop of memories about people, places and ideas. Sometimes, when asked, he would begin expressing them and just not stop. Where did these colours come from? How did they discover that he had them in him?

He always felt in extremes about everything. Sometimes, he’d find himself leaning towards a right-brained analysis of things, feeling cushioned by something like the soft folds of velvety fabric. On other days, his left brain would be too hard on him. At the back of his mind, he could feel himself hitting a wall again and again, unable to move past the emptiness to reach a place of contentment.

In those moments, when he would be alone and amazed at his cluelessness about the why’s and how’s, the hissing sounds of the swaying tree would comfort him. He had never learnt to look back, to the point where no matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn’t. But something about the soft calls made him believe that he was not alone. That despite his world being dark and empty in the moment, some larger force was backing him with its oaky wisdom.