Walls

Walls. Thick, durable, sturdy walls. Granite, stone, cement, heavy, impenetrable.

A single window, placed strategically where few can see. Those who try to look in are unsuccessful. The blinds are tilted far enough that no one can see in, and she alone can look out.

Outside this terrific structure, the rough and jagged walls are pleasantly painted, seeming welcoming and inviting. On the surface, nearly every emotion is displayed, giving the appearance of having very few secrets, and even fewer mysteries.

Around the perimeter, there are five small cracks, some deeper than others. Tokens of brave souls who tried to undertake the task of taking possession of this land.

One lone door located on the east side of the building is the only sign that someone dwells here. But no one may enter. The door has no handle. They must be let in by the keeper of the house.

Inside this house there are many different rooms, each bearing the memory of years gone by. Moments of gladness, moments of sorrow. Days of laughter, days of tears. Hours of heartache, hours of happiness. Minutes of fear, minutes of triumph. In short, inside those impenetrable walls is a portion of a life lived.

There are three floors inside the house that are unfilled. Empty, bare, yet occupied by a deafening silence, they threaten to mirror exactly the lowest level. No change, no alteration, no difference. This would not be the end all, but it would be painfully monotonous.

One woman lives alone in this fortress. She is a great, mighty, experienced builder of walls.