Blank wall are interesting things.
They contort and twist and show you such interesting things.

I see her standing there. I see her alone and friendless. Her stomach is swollen with child while one clings to her neck. She wears gold and silk. She wears tattered rags. They are ripped off from her and she is bruised once more. Her cries are silent. No-one would want to hear her if she screamed out loud. No-one would want to help her either way. She will not give them the satisfaction of hearing her.

She is proud.
She is helpless.
She does not give up.

I see her standing there alone in a room. Surrounded by beauty, she is not out of place all dark eyed and delicate. Nothing can have her grace. Desperation drips from her like wax from a candle. She is alone. Aloneness, once her ally, now taunts her. They did tell her too much of a good thing can be bad.

I see her in a book shop. I see the faintest glow of recognition in her eyes as her imagination is roused by an unforgettable word. But as life rings and calls and cries and rushes her, the impulse of the moment is lost. She puts it down and hastens to her dues.
Her spirit is told to be silent.
It has no value anymore.

I see her laugh and smile, when she thinks no one is looking, as she remembers a long lost joke or moment that no one but she values. After all, it will never come again. I see the wistfulness in her eyes as she looks at a pair of young lovers and remembers her first and last.

I see her eyes and I feel fear. She is dead but not to be buried. Yet a spark in her eyes makes a lofty claim. It declares;
“I have lived before I died.”
That claim gives her strength to go through with the motions of the living.

In her eyes you see things;
Ghosts of laughs long gone;
Spirits of love;
Whispers of the truth;
Demons of fear;
And the ache of hope.
Her heart still claims “I will live again.”


The walls show a girl laughing. I can see the sound rippling through the silence.
The walls show me a girl writing. Her imagination knew no bounds..
The walls show me dreams. They still echo in her ears.


Blank walls tell a tale of their own.