WALL
by: estefaaano_writes
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A fortress, a boundary.
A canvas, a blank slate.
A divider, a unifier.
It holds up the sky, and hides the darkness.
...
I have dissolved into these bricks,
become the mortar between certainties.
Each day, lives brush against my surface—
leaving invisible fingerprints of their stories
while I collect sounds of footsteps
that were never meant to leave marks.
A businessman trails his cologne of desperation,
briefcase swinging like a pendulum
counting down moments he'll never recover.
I absorb his sighs into my concrete pores,
holding space for dreams too heavy
for his pockets to carry.
A young mother presses her palm flat against my face,
steadying herself while her child
scatters autumn leaves in spiral dances.
I hold her weight, her pause, her silent prayer—
the way walls hold up both
ceilings and expectations.
They don't see me watching
through calcium eyes,
how I collect their scattered fragments—
a museum of passing moments,
curator of unlived possibilities,
keeper of roads untaken.
Time flows through me like groundwater,
wearing smooth channels through my being
until I'm more absence than presence,
more memory than matter,
more question than answer—
a monument to everything we choose to ignore.
Between heartbeats of the city,
I've learned to read the blank pages
in everyone's story,
to taste the salt of unshed tears
in their sideways glances,
to hear the whispers they tell themselves
when they think no one is listening.
In this liminal space between
here and elsewhere,
I've learned that walls don't divide—
they gather, they witness, they remember,
becoming mirrors for those who dare to look,
becoming windows for those who dare to see through.
And sometimes, in the violet hour
when shadows stretch like truth,
I feel myself becoming human again
in all these collected pieces of passing lives,
a thousand untold stories crystallizing
into the sediment of my being—
both boundary and threshold,
both ending and beginning,
both silence and song.
