Walls, walls, like standing floors. Like borders of my conscious space, like the edge of where my eyes are allowed to reach. Walls that support the roof to protect me from the rain but equally to keep me from the light of the sun and away from the curious gaze of the stars.
Walls. Walls like my body containing my mind. Only looking through the slits in my skull where my eyes have grown to rest and watch the world outside of my walls.
Walls. Like the brain around my mind taking and stopping inputs and stimuli from the eco system that my body is but still translating them for my thoughts so as to not confuse my mind.
Walls like those of my baby crib, keeping me safe but containing no roof so as to allow me to watch the vast world from the safety of my enclosure.
Walls. Like the cold iron gates of my prison cell, only one of many lining up in this block of the building like a collection of mice trapped behind brick and mortar.
Walls like, those around my head, constantly being breached and insulted as people come to close too fast or look through for too long.
Walls. The place between the roof and the floor. Not keeping me up and not holding me down but still serving both intentions.
Walls. The indication that there is more on the other side then you can sense.
