Mr. Blue: V

Mr. Blue wrote a message. He hadn’t meant to. He didn’t do anything wrong. He just promised, sort of, unspoken, not to do those things again. Mr. Blue wrote a message and fell, somewhat inebriated, asleep.

Mr. Blue pays bills. He’s trying to sort things out. Things keep piling up. So do the bills. Wagner’s playing in the background. Mr. Blue, most of the time, is just confused. He should be doing other things. He wished he would, he wished he could, ‘cause, even when he’s got the time, he just wastes it on something else. Something else is never what he actually wants to do.

He used to do things constantly. It took no effort. It brought joy and fulfilment. It was and would always be there. It wouldn’t. Mr. Blue is scared to start again. It’s been so long. It’s been so damn long. He fears he won’t be any good. He fears, even if he were to try, nothing will come.

So Mr. Blue doesn’t try anymore. Hoping one day he’ll just wake up and all will be different, and nothing will have happened, and it’ll be effortless and it will bring comfort and fulfilment and it will bring joy.

He frets and grinds his teeth and labels himself a coward.

Wagner’s playing in the background. Simple and effective. Complex and fulfilling. Mr. Blue listens to the melancholy and the fury and the hope and the certainty of it all. Mr. Blue knows doing the things he used to do, he won’t be doing them today. When he woke up this morning his head hurt and nothing much was different, apart from having done what he, sort of, unspoken, promised he wouldn’t do again.

Tomorrow Mr. Blue will wake up again. Surely, all will be different. It has to.