My room has nondescript walls. They are stark adobe white, blue in patches from the dampness. There isn’t a single poster or painting to hide its ordinariness. A few rusty nails sticking out at uncanny junctures, with crack like raw nerves emanating to far corners. During the day, the wall shines not, and when the lights are out, they don’t close in.

When i read, they dont stoop over my shoulders to see the pictures. When i listen to music, they dont ask why. When i watch movies that i shamelessly flaunt as i never do, they dont laugh at me. When i do push-ups in my bed, they dont grin sarcastically. When i go to bed, they never sing me lullabies. When i am sad, they dont pretend to comfort me. When i am happy, they never jump and sing with me. When i go out, they never stop me. When i stay, they are white!

The walls are not a part of me, i am not a part of them. Those walls, like me.

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