The Walls

grayscale photo of concrete wall


Groveling chalk. Blistering skin. Chipping nails. Damping cement. Patterning faces.

The squeamish white rectangular block in front of his eyes is nauseating. The shadowing grey at the top corners of the rough rectangle was daunting with its lack of light. The pewter tiles at the bottom of the rectangle were brazen and covered with ebony black moss.

Eyes were looking up.

A mass of blistering chalk-white bubbles wrapped up this slab of the rectangle. Reminding one of a bursting boil protecting the skin of a feverish person. Eyes looking to the right or left were not any better. The chipping canary yellow was just a ghost of what was once bright amber. The walls of the cheap motel room were only a dim shadow of what it once stood for.

Groveling cries. Blistering mind. Chipping heart. Damping cheeks. Patterning faces.

The squeamish emotions slowly rose to the throat, with a blank stark white image in mind. The nauseating green spread all through the twisted pipes and intertwined veins. The light was absent, resulting in the obsolete pitch black. The breaths were brazening, and the thoughts were wrapped by ebony black sheets. The pale skin around the transparent flaxen nails was blistering again. The walls were once again spiraling around the crevices and angles of the blue-bluing brain. But it was not always so obtuse.

Plastered chalk. Healthy skin. Opaque nails. Sturdy cement. Bright faces.

The eggshell white rectangular block in front of the eyes was joy harboring. The ash grey at the top corners of the even rectangle was bewitching with a promise of a mystic mystery. The pewter tiles at the bottom of the rectangle were glossy and covered with frivolous thread-like patterns, almost hypnotizing. Eyes were looking up. A mass of polished chalk-white sheets wrapped up this slab of the rectangle.

Reminding ones of blocks of dried Plaster of Paris. Eyes looking to the right or to the left were even better. The bright ember held promises of loud unfiltered laughter and proud memories yet to be spun. The walls of the brand-new motel room were full of promising good times.

Joyous cries. Healthy mind. Transparent heart. Sturdy cheeks. Bright faces.

The excited scream slowly rose the throat, with a vivid and dazzling palette of colors envisioned in mind. The bold, vermillion red of passion spread all through the twisted pipes and intertwined veins. The darkness was absent, resulting in an obsolete cosmic blast of white. The breaths were fastening, and the thoughts were warped with daisy white angelic whispers.

The flushed skin around the opaque oatmeal nails brushed against the unnamed lover’s smooth caramel skin. The walls were enthralled by the hazel circular orbs’ look and sucked in like a whirlpool whirling its due.

As the traveler sat, his eyes looked dead straight; the dwindling thoughts of a once nuanced film of red blew past his mind. The shimmery marmalade orange was engulfing the scar that looked like the one on Harry Potter’s forehead. The bright canary yellow dripping down the edges and crevices of the newly built wall. The cunning amber-red grooves around the block on the wall.

The oh-so-open-hearted, loud, and unfiltered chitter-chatter that had occurred back and forth while painting the wall. The mint green was dripping down his damp chestnut hair while he attempted to brush it off. The same mint green was circling out on her baby pink tee, creating a dusty brown bandini pattern. These were the reels that never stopped reeling whenever he visited this now-dusty motel room.

There was a searing and sharp spread of dark cobalt blue rapturing his mind. He had seen all the walls. The worn ones, the cracked ones, the new ones, the graffiti ones, the China ones, the Rajasthan ones, the ruined fort ones, the moss-filled ones, the algae have grown ones, the ivy-covered ones, the red-brick ones, the concrete-cement ones, the rocky-tiled ones, the patterned-wood ones, the under-demolishment ones, the creeper-creeping ones, the hanging garden ones, and whatnot.

But not one- one wall could bring him crippling down to his hollowed-out knees like the chipping canary wall of the New to Town motel room number- 491. So the search for the glamorous fairy-lit wall that could crack open his iron-clad barrier would forever stay just out of sight.

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