This is the color of my walls at eight am a little light a little dark a little I don’t know if I want to try yet. “Just say they’re yellow,” I am told. Secretly, I think they doubt that too, that sometimes they wake up and see the not-yellow.
This is the color of my walls at midnight a mess of thoughts, making a Gogh at it. I think maybe there’s a little red mixed in sometimes. “They’re not red,” I am told, again. How could they know, do they watch my walls at night? I wouldn’t mind the company.
This is the color of my walls at eleven am a cave I wish I’d never tried to leave at eight am, a cave of moss and wood and rivers. “No plants grow, no waters flow in there,” I am told. I can’t hear them, because I am in a cave and the water is rushing too loudly.
This is the color of my walls at three thirty pm just a little bit like sleeping, more like a cocoon, nothing at all like leaving. “The walls are dead,” I am told. But maybe they just wish they were, so they wouldn’t have to listen to their colours.
This is the color of my walls at this time maybe pulling, maybe pushing. I think that one is yawning, that one sighing “Don’t listen to the things walls say,” I am told. Aha, so they HAVE heard them too. My walls make them miss the colors of their walls. Aha.