I had a conversation with the brick wall

I had a conversation with the brick wall today. He listened really well, didn't interrupt me, let me talk for hours. He never pressured me to talk to him, and never offended me with his words. He did what brick walls do, stood there nicely like a sturdy brick wall, and I stood there like the manic pixie I was, mouth running like a tap, knowing that a brick wall will hold you up but never be a comfortable place to lean. I know not to show too much of myself – the mortar of my soul is too soft, never drying onto someone's heart. I wonder if I haunt the walls of that brick house. Maybe the mortar of my soul is actually a muzzle-loaded cannon, firing indirectly at a short range. 

I won't see the brick wall for awhile. A room without walls isn't a room at all – just a vast expanse, which is a very vague way of describing something. But sometimes I feel more at peace in a field that stretches for miles than I do anywhere else. The brick wall doesn't want to see me cry and the blue sky is so imposing that it'll hold me for a good while. 

I had a conversation with the brick wall today and it wasn't a conversation – I banged my fists against the brick until my knuckles bled and I cursed only myself, because I chose to speak to a brick wall. But I know that kindness is never wasted, that every breath we take on this earth sustains our life and that can never be wasted either. I wrap my knuckles and vow to never keep my fists up again, because all the truly beautiful things on earth are not man-made like a brick wall – it is the primordial love that lives in the matter of our bodies like the mother that rocked us to sleep. And if one day I wake up suddenly turned into a horrible insect, I will not wonder, "how will I get to work?", but rather, "how will I hold the people I love?".