This wall. I wonder how many people before me, sat in this same position, eyes fixiated on the cobweb patterns of paint, reminds me of veins, fungi, bacteria, me. Why the hell do humans keep returning to this entity which offers no response? Empathy? Sympathy? Apathy? Me? Loyal.
Protects us from hoardes of zombies, the frozen loud whispers of winter, the sharp pieces of the sky falling…for reasons unknown. I know.
Listening, without ossicles suspended in liquid, that’s wicked. Crying against it, like some giant beast, with a chest horizen wide, and strong enough, to support our terribly tired, skinny fat, short tall bodies…when we are at our light-heavy comma, weight-Est. Great beast Embracing Self, an allowing us to scream nothingness…and cry dry tears of woe.
No judgement, just fluency of the silenced language, and the warming sensation over the shoulders, like electricity spilling into a bulb. The light is on. No matter how beautifully comforting it is, the dark, I find the reflected light, which bounces off the pigmented striations in the wall, to be most beautiful. Repainted eighteen thousand and forty six times, I can’t even imagine the amount of confessions you’ve witnessed…I guess you’re real, since I’m acknowledging you as….you. But, what are we looking for in objects we cannot see through? Maybe it’s a representation of our fear, of transparency.
Glass always cuts, and is far too blunt to converse with; always showing what’s on the outside, with small distorted refractions, and picture in picture reflections….of us, staring at the tears racing down our cheeks, to annoyingly tickle our chins(laughing? Humorous?), quickly, wipe that salt off your face…because, nothing is too funny when you’re sad.
The punches don’t work. Not worthy. Either you waltz with numerous amounts of crystalline sharpnel, splitting your cells open, or the energy from your fist, breaks through and your powers float off into the ether….missed lessons.
The wall however, shows you nothing of Self, and your punch merely blemishes it’s bulk. Thine knuckles cry, blood rushes, but at least the energy remains; bouncing back through your fingers, alerting your receptors… to remind you…to remind us, that walls….are everywhere, and to fight the entity that protects us from the living dead…is disrespectful, to every inch of our everything. Aware of awareness, enough so, to realize…that we are still here, still inside…no matter the state…behind a wall we dwell, whether cellular, or cell.