four. the number of walls a typical room is enclosed within.
in the room i reside, i find myself admiring the off-white color they’re covered in. i notice the shaded patches slightly duller than its original coating, over chipped off paint, an attempt to hide the adhesive marks and holes pierced through them by the figures residing before me.
people will do anything to mask the damages they cause.
i’m in a box confined to solitude, but i’m not alone. i stay friends with the ghosts hiding in between the plaster and thick concrete, figments from deep inside of me that sometimes come out to play.
they secure me from the nothingness that lie beyond the transparent, in which i can see everything and nothing at the same time. they comfort me with a tranquility from the external havoc, a tranquility that i find no physical figure is able to provide.
one. two. three. four.
enclosed within each corner, surrounded by these walls, is a space of liberation that can’t be found elsewhere. a space of permeability that allows my skin to absorb the salted liquid that drips from the ducts in my eyes.
walls i can fill with posters and canvas, walls i can use to hang frames of empty memories, walls i can tape and hammer and glue, walls i can paint over and over and over, walls that have seen every angle of my naked structure, walls that have allowed me honesty and vulnerability, walls that have shown me truth—
one. two. three.
four. the number of walls that make up this room. the room i reside in along with my friends. the room that counts and quantifies nothing.
i’m not alone.
i’m among four walls,
walls that confine me to freedom.