If walls could talk

If walls could talk, I would have quite the story to tell. For centuries, I have been standing here, watching the world go by from my vantage point in this old library. I am not just any wall – I have seen history unfold before my very eyes. I have witnessed wars, plagues, and revolutions, but I have also seen the beauty and joy of human existence. And all of it, every last bit, has been etched into my very being.

I remember when this library was built, back in the early 1900s. I was just a blank canvas then, freshly painted and waiting for the books to be stacked high against my surface. It was a grand building, with ornate carvings and stained-glass windows that filtered the sunlight into rainbow patterns on my surface. I could hardly contain my excitement as the books began to fill up the shelves, one by one.

It was during the war that I first realized the power of my voice. The library was used as a shelter during the bombing raids, and many people huddled against my surface, seeking protection from the bombs. I heard their cries of fear, their prayers for survival, and their stories of love and loss. Some of them wrote messages on my surface, leaving their mark for future generations to see.

After the war, the library became a hub of activity, with students and scholars pouring in every day to study and learn. I heard lectures and debates, whispered confidences, and passionate arguments. The walls around me echoed with the sounds of human curiosity and exploration.

And then, in the 1960s, the library became a place of rebellion. The students who came to study here were also protesting against the Vietnam War and fighting for civil rights. I heard their chants and their songs, their cries of injustice, and their calls for change. They painted slogans on my surface, using me as a canvas for their art and their dissent.

As time passed, the library changed with the times. The books on my shelves were replaced by computers, and the students who came to study here were different too. But I remained, a constant witness to the ebb and flow of human history.

Now, in the present day, I watch as a new generation of students come to study here. They are curious and enthusiastic, full of the same thirst for knowledge that has driven humans for centuries. And I am still here, bearing witness to their achievements and struggles, just as I have always done.

If walls could talk, they would tell stories of love and loss, of joy and pain, of war and peace. And I, as the wall of this library, have seen it all. I am proud to be a part of human history and to carry these stories with me always.

Years passed, and the old library that I had been a part of was set to be demolished. I had seen it coming, as the building had become old and decrepit. The students who had once frequented its halls had moved on to newer and more modern spaces.

As the demolition began, I could feel my surface being chipped away piece by piece. But I didn't feel sad or afraid. I knew that my time was up and that it was time to move on to the next chapter of my existence.

As the demolition team worked, they uncovered a hidden message on my surface, written by a student during the war. It read, "In times of darkness, let there be light." And as I listened to the workers talk about it, I knew that my voice had been heard.

Because even though I was just a wall, I had been a witness to history. I had seen the best and the worst of humanity, and I had remained steadfast through it all. And even as I crumbled away into dust and rubble, my voice lived on in the memories of those who had touched me and been touched by me.

So, if walls could talk, what would they say? They would say that the world is a complex and beautiful place, full of stories waiting to be told. They would say that human existence is a journey and that every moment is precious. And they would say that, no matter how small or insignificant we may seem, we all have a voice that deserves to be heard.