What with donald trump touting that his wall will be good, and it being associated with his vilification of mexicans.
It wasn't always this way though.
Walls used to be pretty good.
I mean, we don't necessarily appreciate them the way that people in ancient times did.
Anyway, I was thinking about walls and i came up with a little story.
So here it is.
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I had a dream one night where I befriended a wall.
It began simply enough.
I was sat opposite a wall, in a forest.
It was a little bizarre, to think I was sitting and staring at a wall.
Strange enough that I was in a forest, let alone sat plainly in front of a wall.
I greet the wall.
"hello there"
It's a wall. What would I expect?
It stays silent.
Its aura foreboding, yet calm.
I ask the wall,
"Is there anything you want from me?"
It simply stood there, saying nothing.
Its' silence felt poignant.
So there I sat, wondering what I should do about it.
I go home, and get in bed.
I didn't think of the wall all of the next day,
but as the sun went down,
I lay awake, thinking again, of the wall in the forest.
The next week,
I found myself sat in front of the wall, staring once again.
Now I am thinking,
'Why is there even a wall here?'
This night is different,
I hear the wall whisper to me.
"Build Yourself"
Taken aback by hearing the wall make a sound, I am in slight awe.
'Build myself? I am just a man, how could I be a wall?'
Sat there, I pondered at what it could have meant,
imagining building a wall myself,
or even, to build myself into a wall.
As I leave, I look at the wall.
I acknowledge it,
I respect it as a monument in itself.
Full of meaning, yet cold as the stone from which it was built.
I return home, thinking of what it means to build myself.
Months pass and I don't think of the wall.
Not at all.
Til one fateful night,
I return to the wall.
Looking at the wall, I realise.
It is painted!
This once unassuming wall now shines with its own exuberance.
Examining the wall, I remember the cold stone facade.
Those cold nights where I sat in comfort and in awe,
Opposite the same wall.
I see it painted in the colors it chose; bright and vibrant,
Glowing radiantly as light dances and gently bounces off its skin.
I stand there, looking at a wall.
With the pale moonlight shining vaguely off of it,
As the wall becomes one with the night.
Ever steady, ever strong.
