It was from staring at the blank, white wall for four hours straight that she realized she had gotten accustomed to seeing nothing but emptiness to complain about sore, dry eyes. That no matter how much she tried seeking a small dot of a different color, there would be none, unless she threw an open-headed pen, or a pencil, at it. Then her eyes would frantically search some more, hoping that, besides the pen mark, there would be something else different with the canvas. And then it would happen again. The revelation would unfold itself once more. She would see it in a fresh perspective; rebellious and so unlike the previous, countless times she had wished for a miracle to appear. As her head spins and whirls, and the colors of her life beyond that room dance before her in a merry, festive jig, she is reminded. Relieved. And she sighs. There is nothing there but a blank, white wall.