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Framed

My emotions were reflecting my circumstances too strongly the last few days so I built walls around me. The walls aren't dark, or moldy as usually depicted in depression commercials.
 
Mine are usually wooden planks, horizontal, covered in faded paint. It is a blue that doesn't age well, like my grandfather. They warp in weird places. But light gets through the cracks.
 
The roof is metal and wavy; and when I storm the sound my tears make as they fall is... beautiful. They always seem to find the crest and when they fall, they stall. As if waiting to see if it is fulfilling its purpose. I have to assure it that it has, that falling is what it must do. That within it there is a world, one that I can only see when it creates curves.
 
In that room, I sit until I realize that there is no door. Someone put in the frame but for years only a curtain has hung there.

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