If only walls could talk, mine would be stunned to silence, reaching out their arms to wrap me in a warm embrace. Some nights when I flick off the light switch and settle into the melancholy dim of my bedroom I whisper words into my pillow. Beautiful things. Sad things. Hopeful things. Things I want to say to someone. I pour my heart into the quiet spaces while the rest of the world sleeps.
If walls could talk I’m convinced they would tell us to stop questioning our hungry hearts when life feels so heavy it could snap every fragile bone in your body, but fear is paralyzing, and life is messy. These are all truths. It’s a room full of dirty laundry and you can’t find the one pair of pants that fits just right amidst the chaos. So you keep searching or come back to look again another time. I suppose I have learned I will always stubbornly search for that one pair of pants.
If walls could talk maybe they would tell us how dangerous it is to live in your head. Maybe they would say “if only you could hear what we do, then you wouldn’t be so afraid”. If only you knew what we knew, then you would jump.
The Rummy Writer 