The wall. I am the wall. So many things go on between me and this mirror. The mirror sees what happens and I hear what happens. The mirror might reflect one's true appearance, but I hear their thoughts. They speak them out loud and I sympathize with them as best as I can. I don’t have any emotions I don’t think. The mirror is blunt and honest, but I think I am nicer. I let them do what they want with me no matter how much I don’t like it. I’d like to think that the mirror is a friend stuck in a predicament similar to my own. Well I guess I do have emotions. They say pain is one of them. I have heard and felt too much. I feel the pointy things they call pens that they stick into my body. It hurt at first, but after a while you get used to the pain. I wonder if humans do the same thing as I. I still feel the brush strokes of the thing humans call a paint brush touching me. I want to tell them to stop but I cannot. I want to tell them to leave me be and let me have some alone time. But I cannot because I am just a wall. They say walls can’t talk, but we can just not in a language humans can understand. We push things off of us sometimes in a fit of rage only to have them be put back on. Over the years I have heard so many people talk about their pain, their joy, their sorrow, and their satisfaction. No matter how much of it I hear I can never respond because I am just a wall. I am just a wall that is meant to be used over and over until I have no use.
