My secrets spilled

And I saw the two tall building talk. I strained my ears but could not hear them. I realised they did not speak using sound. But i still strained to hear what they said. I wanted to hear if they spoke about me. Did they even know about me? Did they feel it when i banged the walls? Were their hearts as stony as the hard plaster that bruised my knuckles?

They are non living things. I was taught that. Who would believe that they could talk, even if i heard them. There were so many lives in them. How could they be not alive. How could they not share what they heard in those closed rooms, those lonely corridors and the claustophobic lifts. They were rooted and had walls within them. Walls which saved one being from another and yet seperated each one to their own loneliness.

I saw the tall building lean as the wind blew wild. Leaning closer to whisper to the the other pile of concrete and steel. I heard the whisper this time. It seemed to speak so many words together. Each life losing its exclusivity in the cacophony. It was the wind… yes, the wind it was. The one that spoke. Making the sound for our noisy world. Our worlds that needs the sound of the words to make meaning.

Building are created by us but they aren’t controlled by us. At least for what they communicate.

Therefore I strain my ears. I bang the walls and bruise my knuckles. I wait for the secrets to be spilled so that I can create more. As I imagine the buidings talk, I create more fantasy. Who will know the difference. If I couldn’t know the truth from the fantasy, I presume the building will not know too.

But who knows.

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