Claudia's Room
My laughter echoes off the walls � walls that have collected the thoughts, hopes, and dreams of generations. Their physical age is approaching the span of a single human�s years; if, though, the words and emotions trapped within them is a measure of spiritual age then they are, and have been, perpetually nineteen.
They�ve held the images of pop stars of every decade (or every season) with equal passion. They�ve filtered an infinite variety of music into the unchanging garbled monstrosity heard next door. They�ve been plastered with color: pictures replaced every other week (boyfriends� faces torn down in fury, only to be lovingly re-hung later, next to a bouquet of fresh roses). They�ve gone through agonizing periods of emptiness � the meticulous occupants preferring a couple of choice photos neatly arranged on an organized desk.
They�ve heard the click of heels and the swish of skirts, the patter of bare feet and the distinctive rustle of cords. The dripping of wet hair has an echo somewhere in their memory (maybe coupled with shrieks at a roommate�s prank). More recently, though, they�ve vibrated with the mechanical cues of machinery: alarm clocks, microwaves, and computers (closely followed by profanity). The muffled sobs of homesick or heartbroken girls contrast oddly with secrets and giggles.
These walls have been steeped in perfumes and christened with the reek of pot; they always hold the odor, only to lose it as rapidly as the occasion recedes in the memory of the human girl. The sweet scent of chocolates, candies and fruits returns as unceasingly as the chemical odors of cleaning agents and paints.
Undoubtedly, though, my romanticized notions of life as a wall are becoming boring. After all, perpetual youth, with its unending (not to mention harrowing) ups and downs would tire even the most avid observer (only the participants can remain intrigued throughout it all). The walls, however, aren�t reading a stream of narrative, and noting (becoming gradually more infuriated) the tired trends borrowed from every other piece of nostalgic fiction ever written. They�re living it vicariously. Not the vicariously of the negative connotations in our world � parents pushing their children into the lives they�d wished for themselves � but truly vicariously. They become the enchanting being who sheds tears over bad grades but morph when she�s replaced by her roommate, scrawling hateful, but impassioned, words in her journal (or diary, depending on the popular term of the day).
The walls derive their existence -- their personality -- from humanity. There is nothing in between residences. They don�t contemplate the universality of human experience, or revel in the minute differences that make each individual unique. They don�t wonder at fate, worship any version of God, or even wait. When the door closes they stagnate � they cease to be anything but the physical remnants left by the occupants. They don�t remember the periods of absence, just as they don�t remember yesterday�s sorrows and don�t anticipate tomorrow�s joys.
Such is the cost of perpetual youth.