All walls are the same. Painted different colours, they bleed helpless of the hands that barely graze by. All walls are the same. Coated. Re-coated. And white washed to perfection.
They watch out for you. Out there, dry, and wet, and cold, they watch you approach and who knows how they perk. They are yours. Just as much as they make you theirs. Wanting nothing in return, these walls are the ghosts of all the hands that ever touched them.
The lovers who pressed against them in timeless passion still arch fervidly against these walls; their hungry eyes still follow each other as their little dance unfurls while they tumble within these walls.
Love never ages here.
These walls are a schizophrenic soliloquy of the madness within. You can hear them whisper incoherently. So overwhelming the tales…
That you learn of a pair of old hands skirting past for support somewhere in a corner.
Somewhere a young girl still leans, in a nerve-racking conversation with her first love.
Somewhere, you can hear the ever pleasant narrative of the piece of cake that missed its intended victim.
And somewhere, there’s a spurt of fading blood. There’s a splash of piping tea that still burns a faultless corner, and there’s a humbled smudge somewhere, if you look clearly, it used to be an exaggerated chip so ashamed of how it came to be. Somewhere.
Place your ears softly against these timeless contours, you could almost hear the lovers whispering sweet nothings embraced in the sighing promise of forever. If you listen close enough, you’ll hear the fading words that belonged to the old hands once upon a time.
If you listen close enough, you can hear the screams that could make two little hearts scurry for an escape within their cages. If you feel gently enough, you’ll see how these walls aged a thousand in just a few…
And if you can hold your breath, for just a little bit, you will hear resolve.
As the lovers become conscious of the emotion that this is it for them. As the old voice feels prepared and the others let her go. You will hear resolve…
And as the little hearts resolve to forever lock themselves in their insulating bastilles, you will hear a wail escape these walls at their vaulting.
All walls are the same. Tongue-tied, frightened and dumbfounded by the many things they see in their lifetime.
All walls are the same. But they never tell you of the things they’ve seen.
Unless you listen closely.