[“We stand round blankly as walls.” – Sylvia Plath]
One wall of my house has neither window nor picture nor plaque. Sometimes I stand in front of it, waiting. I have given this wall freedom to be anything, or nothing. A plaque or picture would just force it to be something of me, not itself.
I am patient.
Some day it may show me a crack, or at least a cobweb. Then I will stand somewhere else. And look at another wall.
Waiting for it to betray me, too.
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