THE WALL COLOURS

Back then, the walls were dead.

Grey like old gum stuck under benches.

Nobody cared what a building had to say.

Then the hands came.

Hands with paint under the nails.

Hands that didn’t ask permission.

Hands that were tired of being ghosts.

We were kids with nothing but a name

and the urge to put it somewhere it shouldn’t be.

Tag it once. Tag it twice.

Tag it till the city gotta acknowledge you.

We weren’t following trends.

We were the trend.

Before brands printed “street style” on t-shirts

and charged rent-money prices.

Before music vids started hiring “graffiti consultants.”

Before some dude from uptown tried to “teach graffiti workshops”

after watching one documentary.

Nah.

This was late-night stairwells,

rusty gates at train yards,

running when the flashlight hit you.

Ink on backpacks, chrome on fingertips,

heart pounding like kick-drums at a block party.

Hip-hop didn’t invent us.

We just recognized each other on sight.

Same hunger.

Same city breathing hot air and bad news.

Same need to speak when no one’s giving you the mic.

Beats gave us tempo.

We gave the streets story.

Tags turned to throwies.

Throwies grew teeth and became pieces.

Pieces became murals the size of memories

you can’t wash off.

And the crews?

Crews were real family.

Not some “like and subscribe” family.

We talked through walls.

We argued through rooftops.

We proved loyalty with lookout duty.

Some of us got famous.

Good for them.

Some of us stayed in the shadows.

Good for them too.

Because the city ain’t a gallery.

The city is canvas and battlefield in the same breath.

They called us vandals.

Because they were scared of anything loud

that didn’t ask them first.

But every tag said the same prayer:

I WAS HERE.

Don’t erase me.

Don’t pretend I didn’t live inside this story too.

Now graffiti’s global.

Berlin rooftops buzzing.

São Paulo trains shimmering.

NYC tunnels whispering names

of people who moved on

or got caught

or just lived enough to grow out the other side.

The scene evolved, yeah.

Styles change.

Tools change.

Music changes.

But the heartbeat is still raw:

One kid

One can

One night

One city that will remember

even if it won’t admit it.

This ain’t vandalism.

This ain’t rebellion for the aesthetic.

This is language.

This is survival with color.

This is writing your existence

on something bigger than your life.

We don’t paint walls.

We wake them up.