Sometimes I think about walls. They’re all around us – we depend on them, for warmth, for shelter, for stability. But there’s walls that we build and then walls that build ourselves, carving our consciousness into mansions. There are rooms that I haven’t visited in years. There are doors that I don’t have the key for. There are walls that deserve wrecking balls, not paint. Telling your story is like writing on walls. Words are not fleeting – they linger long past the tenant’s death. Maybe this is why we’re afraid.
we’re all a little bit afraid to write on walls
they’re a bit too cumbersome to slip into pockets
a bit too heavy to tuck under pillows
walls have a bad habit of sticking around way past their welcome
but we haven’t figured out a way to tell them
we’d really prefer the sky