Today I spent time facing the wall against my bed.
I studied the grooves, the tiny eddies.
I tried looking for ears. I didn't find any.
I like leaning my back against it while lying on my bed.
The best of both worlds: hard and soft, cold and warm.
The bubbles in the paint don't burst. Air.
I can trace rivers in it. Long veins of solid flow. Water.
Imagine the rock it is made of. Earth.
Or the sun that dried the mud into bricks. Fire.
I suddenly recalled the advertisement where the paint was so smooth, lizards slide right off it.
Do you think lizards ever get motion sickness tracking walls?
I don't think I'll make a good lizard.
I'll drop off walls and get squished by the eeee-o-mi-gord-a-lee-zaard!!!-people.
):
I wonder why I was never one of those kids who drew on their bedroom walls.
But then again, that wasn't a good habit to have.
Probably a residual vestige of cave-man entertainment.
They say you can hear the sea if you listen to a sea shell.
Put your ears to the wall:
There's a dull, aching drumming pound,
not unlike a heartbeat.