Burdened Wall by Stina Trollbäck

    And it’s just crashing and spinning and swirling and ignoring its own cacophony. It’s slamming itself to pieces. It doesn’t understand why it hurts to be bouncing off a wall that hits back and serenades the slams with glass and crystalline bark. It doesn’t care that it has been pounded on. Not until it manages to regurgitate every bit of plaster mix and has folded itself into the crumble of a ceiling. The wall does not slide itself into a crevice and it does not wheel itself away from the doors that swing harshly and murderously. It’s just fragmenting and exploding and it doesn’t care that it is parked in its place and that it can’t move even a centimeter.
     I wish I were like that. I wish I could surround myself with an emotionless dome that protects from impeding bullets and thunderous sounds and mammoth attempts at booming destruction or obliteration. And I wish I could crisscross stability with breakage and crack open an endless gratuity for the floor beneath the rubble that I am. And I wish I didn’t have to hear. I wish I could be that cave that lets words bounce around without ever letting them sink beyond the rock surface. It would be ideal to have words never penetrate my brain or slither in and out of the pores of my skin; just lead a crusade of tumbling wood that didn’t want to hold up a roof any longer.
     I wish I could be leaned on without feeling a burden of weight.
     I wish my feet never got ashamed of the pressure to keep me upright and balanced.