(no subject)
If these walls could talk…
Those words always terrified her. If these walls could talk, they wouldn’t speak joyfully of happy memories, or of warm, friendly days past. There would be no nostalgia or old jokes to be told. If these walls could talk, they would whisper poison in her ear, they would say everything she didn’t want to hear and didn’t want to know. The walls of her home had absorbed the tension, the angry words and the tears until it almost seemed that they pulsed with the pain and the hurt. They weren’t the walls that had protected and defended her; they were the walls that locked her in and suffocated her. They had seen her weakest moments, and she could never forgive them for that. She always sleeps facing the wall closest to her bed: staring down an enemy, a monster.
They’ve all been painted at one time or another- happy, warm colors, pastels that seemed to promise better times, softer times. She thought that as she rolled the lilac murmur and the goldenrod yellow over the blank white she was covering up the past, that as surely as the paint would dry, the new beginning would come…fool that she was. You can’t hide what has become a part of you; you can’t hide what has been steadily, constantly seeping into your being. The colors gave the walls a mask for a while, and as all masks eventually do, this one become just as grotesque and fake as what it was covering. Layers upon layers upon layers…as she peeled back one, another was waiting, each worse than the last.
Her worst fear is something that she can barely whisper to herself…they say first you hate the walls, then you get used to them, and sooner or later, you begin to depend on them. To like them. She’s terrified that the day may come when she embraces the walls, when she admits defeat and stops fighting the cruelty of them. On that same day she’ll lose whatever she’s got left of herself. It may not be much, but it’s what she’s fighting for. And God knows everyone needs something to fight for…only some things are more desperate, more important than others. Above all else, she waits in apprehension for the day when the walls stop being hateful, stop being painful…and become acceptable. In that sense, she tries to trick time. She tries to beat the clock, saying that they’re acceptable already, all the while simultaneously denying it in her head. If a part of her accepts it now, that fake acquiescence may just last until there’s something else.
So she may paint the walls again, she may try to scrub them clean, but all she is really doing is waiting…praying for the day when she can tear them down, the day when she can move on.
If these walls could talk…
Hell, they already do.
Those words always terrified her. If these walls could talk, they wouldn’t speak joyfully of happy memories, or of warm, friendly days past. There would be no nostalgia or old jokes to be told. If these walls could talk, they would whisper poison in her ear, they would say everything she didn’t want to hear and didn’t want to know. The walls of her home had absorbed the tension, the angry words and the tears until it almost seemed that they pulsed with the pain and the hurt. They weren’t the walls that had protected and defended her; they were the walls that locked her in and suffocated her. They had seen her weakest moments, and she could never forgive them for that. She always sleeps facing the wall closest to her bed: staring down an enemy, a monster.
They’ve all been painted at one time or another- happy, warm colors, pastels that seemed to promise better times, softer times. She thought that as she rolled the lilac murmur and the goldenrod yellow over the blank white she was covering up the past, that as surely as the paint would dry, the new beginning would come…fool that she was. You can’t hide what has become a part of you; you can’t hide what has been steadily, constantly seeping into your being. The colors gave the walls a mask for a while, and as all masks eventually do, this one become just as grotesque and fake as what it was covering. Layers upon layers upon layers…as she peeled back one, another was waiting, each worse than the last.
Her worst fear is something that she can barely whisper to herself…they say first you hate the walls, then you get used to them, and sooner or later, you begin to depend on them. To like them. She’s terrified that the day may come when she embraces the walls, when she admits defeat and stops fighting the cruelty of them. On that same day she’ll lose whatever she’s got left of herself. It may not be much, but it’s what she’s fighting for. And God knows everyone needs something to fight for…only some things are more desperate, more important than others. Above all else, she waits in apprehension for the day when the walls stop being hateful, stop being painful…and become acceptable. In that sense, she tries to trick time. She tries to beat the clock, saying that they’re acceptable already, all the while simultaneously denying it in her head. If a part of her accepts it now, that fake acquiescence may just last until there’s something else.
So she may paint the walls again, she may try to scrub them clean, but all she is really doing is waiting…praying for the day when she can tear them down, the day when she can move on.
If these walls could talk…
Hell, they already do.