If Walls Could Talk, I Wouldn't.

If walls could talk, I bet they wouldn’t. At least, I wouldn’t. We are given words, memories, secrets, by the people that live within us, and it is our duty to keep them, as much as it is to stay standing. We are guardians, a layer from the outside world. Within us, deepest fears and greatest dreams are recognized. And all along we stand, still and silent and watching.

If walls could talk, if I could talk, if I had to talk, I would tell you the only story I know. The story of my life. The story of my death. The joy, pain, excitement, fear, happiness I have felt, and the families that taught me all of those things. Love, loss, life, all the things that make one willing to talk; all the things that make one willing to stay silent.

I still remember my first family. A young couple, with a new life on the way. My windows and doors were excited to welcome them. But new life did not mean happiness. Anger, sorrow, fear were my first real emotions. Pain too, when that anger brought a fight, and that fight brought violence. I could say nothing, do nothing but wait, and hurt, for myself and for the new live now shattered.

They left soon after, not together, and I stood empty for a time. It was a quiet emptiness, though blessedly short, A new family came not long after. They remodeled me to fix their size; several new lives meant several new rooms. These new lives were happier, and grew for a long time with me. They were more new lives that came to live with me, new lives that left. Silently, I grew with them, I stayed without them. Silently, I missed each old one, loved each new one. Silently, I was happy.

Many generations of them lived with me. They changed me now and then, reawakened me, gave me new purpose. They promised to stay forever. Without words they promised to love me, and without words I promised to love them. I protected them, shielded them, kept their secrets, shared their joys. But they too, left, one by one, and again, I stood empty. I was lonely again, lonely and empty like I had never been.

Families came and went. Small ones, large ones. Sometimes for years, sometimes for barely any time at all. I loved some, I hated some. There were good and bad. Change and no change at all. Sometimes I was full and happy and sometimes I was empty and lonely. All the time, I remained silent. Secrets stayed secrets, memories remained memories, and I did not talk.

One last family came, only two this time. This time, there was no happiness. More anger and sorrow, much more than last time, pain and fear. More and more until I thought I might burst. My stomach ached, my head sagged, death crept slowly ever closer for me, for them. Death caught one of them, painfully, by the hands of the other, and I knew it had caught me too.

I stood empty again, for years, for centuries, for ages. I fell in on myself with emptiness, loneliness, with anger. I was angry above all, angrier than I had ever understood. I was empty, dead, without a purpose, and left to rot by the very people who I protected with my life. Silent. I was abandoned, murdered. I was not alive, and I could not die. A deep sorrow flooded my gut. My head swam with fear.

I needed.

I yearned.

I prayed.

I hungered.