June 1, 2016
White walls surround me as if trying to enclose me with their purified blankness. So, I stray away trying not to stand too close, always planting my feet firm on the middle of the room.
And gradually, from the distance I made, they were free to start collecting dust. Fragments of tiny particles formed from the joining of earth and air gathered close to their bodies. They became tinted. Corrupted. Downcasted. Became a mockery to the before form they once stood proudly to embrace me with.
But they aren’t blank anymore. They aren’t singular, aren’t empty.
Time has placed colors into these walls. Time has written stories of how time fades away so quickly.
And it is not so much of a bad thing, really. I enjoyed tracing them, connecting one pool of dust with the scattered webs floating on the other side. Enjoyed weaving patterns of dust like wool with my two eyes, crossing them together for a blanket to cover me.
I need to stop staring at goddamn walls.