an excerpt from a short story i can't publish here:
Walls remember: Walls to homes, bedrooms and kitchens; boundary walls, walls that we build only to forget why. Walls we jumped to get into places we’d never been to, walls we lean against to share cigarettes and chai. Walls we sat on and spoke about the world for hours on. Walls we hid behind to steal a kiss or a hug, walls that hid us when we lay in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, sharing our space, doing nothing.
They watch ominously from the peripheries of everything, always judging, always saying things they are made to say. They are covered by stealth with colours or not; with graffiti, crayons, shoes or not; with urine and shit in irreverence or not; with dung and newspaper and plaster of paris or not; with photographs and paintings and posters or not; with markers of lives they watch, or not. Walls know the physicality of true stories: of secrets and lies, of politics and truths, of things everyone would rather forget. They’re always crumbling in the weight of what they know, always weighing in on their foundations, always breaking down. Walls crumble because they remember.