If Painted Walls Could Talk

They would scream at the thought of being whitewashed. And right now, at this moment, my apartment is in hysterics. I can barely focus over all this noise. The turquoise living room shrieks like a lonely child, the lavender kitchen swears like a man who has just stubbed the same toe for the second time in an hour, the orange bathroom weeps like a country singer recently abandoned by his third wife.

And why do my walls lament? They lament at the prospect of blankness, of whiteness, of silence. Our building manager recently informed us that the next tenets of our apartment, who move in September 1, want the walls painted white. They want to rid our legendary apartment of its third most distinct feature (first being its tenants, second being a massive wicker throne we found on the street).

It isn’t as if we painted the thing ourselves. And no doubt, we were skeptical to move into a place with blood red and lime green bedrooms. But after eight months, the colors have come to make our apartment feel like home. When we walk into other units of the building and see the walls painted white a feeling of hollow sterility creeps into our guts.

So when it comes to changing things we are displeased. What do we have if not silly colored walls? Our manager asked if he could paint the walls this weekend. He had some free time and it was going to have to get it done sooner or later. Sure, I said without realizing the monumental nature of his request, I just need to talk to my roommates.

The first roommate I spoke to was disappointed, the second was outraged. Me? I didn’t realize the value of my walls until the possibility of loss entered the picture. First the burden of moving all that furniture* entered my mind. Then the bleached paranoia of nothingness began to creep in. Then, finally, the walls began to scream.

*Wicker chair notwithstanding

Note: We have been informed that the walls will remain colorful until August.   Things are again around here.