Sandy Supposes....

Walls Whinge

4/15
Staying at Home: Wall Talk
These walls are made for talkin’!
The popcorn’s poppin’ and we’re all rubbing our hands together in anticipation of what we’re about to read. We’re ready for the whole story, no matter how funny!
Are ya ready, walls? Start talkin!

Carol St. Ann, Slacker

         

         

         

         

         We walls are more than ready to talk. We've been waiting for the invitation, so to speak. We've been lurking and watching. Nothing slips by us . You've heard that expression, the walls have ears. We're sorta sentinels witnessing all there is to espy. We do more than hold up the roof and provide shelter. Yes, we are privy to every angle. Nothing escapes our notice.

         We notice that the dust is accumulating without check. The increased daylight highlights the fuzziness of the furniture and dust motes twirl and frolic in the sunbeams. We've never before seen such large dust bunnies burrowing under the couch. If we could, we'd sweep, but alas, we can only support brooms in an upright position. We wonder if the occupant could be 'dust blind'?

         The smells emanating from our enclosure tantalize. More muffins, cakes, and cookies have materialized in the past two months than we've salivated over in ten years. If only we could taste cinnamon and chocolate. The occupant seems to savour them.

         We're familiar with the freight trains that rumble by and shake us to our core, but the rock music reverberating and 'crescendoing' is another type of rattle. The screeching from the occupant apparently singing along sends shivers up our drywall. Don't ask me to describe the gyrating, it's a sight we'd like to forget and never mention again.

         Most of the time our occupant is bathed in an eery glow from her computer screen. In the darkness, it illuminates her hunched over and pecking away at a keyboard. She takes no notice of us. We've got her back, but does she care?

         She forces us to hold and display an inordinate number of framed photos. When is enough enough? We feel suffocated by their presence. We believe we could use a new coat of paint, but the truth is we no longer know what colour we once were.

         The occupant rarely goes out anymore. Why? What keeps her here?