Walls do talk, though you might not think.
They can tell you things that people just can’t see.
They speak volumes of history within.
Large or small.
Even walls on places you can only crawl.
Stories of joy and loss.
Stories of horror that defy decent laws.
Some scream to tell of great sins.
on the ceiling and the floors,
and all the places within.
The secrecy of hearts-imprinted in this space.
Telling stories hidden from the face.
The cover of this place attempts to hide what the walls can say.
But history is captured by those who dare to listen.
If the walls did talk what would they say to us? If the sky cried are they raindrops or are they tears that cascade down and sore through the atmosphere, revealing centuries-old pain. And would it validate the millions that suffer at the hands of others? If all survivors of such atrocities were to shout up to the heavens, would it even make a sound?
We simply cannot shout because there is a blanket of darkness that keeps our secrets in. These secrets become trapped in our hearts and in our minds to work out at some safe future time.
There were many serious injuries that have happened in my childhood and still are with me today. I know how precious childhood is because of things that I went without like nurturing and affection. I went without enough emotional care or connection from my mom. I did receive some affection from my father as an infant. But that was to change and turn into terror at his designated time.
We have no idea what genes we will get at the moment of our conception. We cannot choose our genes and we cannot choose our parents. We are at the mercy of their inherited parenting skills. These skills that they were taught, trickled down to future generations.
We need to do all that is in our power to make a change.