I live between two walls, they sit close together, one is white and one is black, each is covered in paint.
And when I was born they were both solid colours, and I could pick which side to look at.
And then one day I touched it, and realized the paint never dried, and my hands became covered in black, covered in black and it got everywhere, on my clothes and in my hair.
So I touched the white wall, same thing.
White paint everywhere.
I kept to myself after that, holding my body in between the two walls so that the two colours didn’t mix and they didn’t collide, trying my best not to lean on either, my body growing tired as the years went by.
But one day I leaned, on the white wall, with my body covered in greys, and it made it less calm, and less peaceful, and less boring.
It made it…..something, something to look at.
And I don’t know what came over me but I took my hands and started running up and down the white wall and writing notes and making handprints and covering it with things.
And then I turned around and did the same thing to the black wall, giving it life and giving it colour and giving it something instead of darkness.
Nothing is ever happy or sad or old or new, it’s walls covered in life and grey, and we should paint them, we should paint them.