If They Could Talk

If walls could talk there would be one with a lot to say. It would tell stories of the things it has seen, the people that have passed, and the age it has lived to witness. Growing accustomed to the cold barrier of remorse and conversations of whispers, this wall would tell tales that have been long forgotten by many. You could say that this wall has grown similar to the prisoners trapped within it. Because this wall is trapped in their story as well. This wall has been beaten by age, caressed by sorrow while comforted by pain.

This was all it knew, through nights of long agony and mornings of bleak relief. The wall of lost dreams and hidden emotion. Without the chance to choose it has seen nearly everything. The wall of broken souls and silent cries, the wall of truths told but never realized, the wall of pain and little remorse.

Until, it became curious about the man currently carving his life into it. He arrived a year ago, and according to the guard’s he will never see the outside of my home again. This man, isn’t like the rest. He hasn’t become accustomed to the life of imprisonment. He seems to be free, here, in this room. Unlike the others, this man hasn’t run away from the fate that awaits him. Instead, he has embraced me. A wall longing for companionship. The man carves his story into me everyday with ink-stained hands, re-living the memories of what he left behind. In all my years, I have seen death dance at the hands of regret. So why then, does this man choose to explore his past rather than accept his present?

The walls next to me have heard murmur’s about heaven while shunning hell. They tell me that this man has experienced beauty in a place distant from the prison walls. That he is now repenting for the sins he’s committed. As the days go by I’ve noticed that with every word he writes, he will close his eyes. As if he’s trying to hold on to the moment passing him by. At night, he’s picked up the habit of sighing. I know he won’t tell me what keeps his heart aching, but I believe it has something to do with the constants. Some days, I long to read. For a chance to digest the words he’s left on me. To give advice to this man I’ve grown accustomed to.

He’s left me, worrying. About the attachment I’ve built to this fleeting moment. He is a man, sentenced to live out his days without the comforts of humanity. He is a man, deprived of his rights as a citizen. He is a man, sentenced as an outcast. And I? Am a wall that has been sentenced to observation. A wall, that will never be able to confort him as they can. And yet, within our distance, I have found boundless comfort in his presence. He’s not like the others that lived within my walls. He doesn’t cry, or plot to kill his neighbors over the cigarettes left behind. He waits, he watches and his stories fill the cracks in my existence. This man, a comrade in observation.

While speaking out loud he mentioned publishing his life for others to read. That the wrongfully accused deserves to be heard. After making that declaration, he looked towards my direction in opportunity, and oh with such intent as if his words were wanting me to solve his misery. I never thought watching him would bring me loneliness, that I would long to be a living soul capable of embracing him in warmth. Is this emotion?