I wish that I owned these walls.
I wish that every time I sat and stared at these blank empty walls I could do something about the ideas that jump around in my head. There’s colors and pictures and words that I could fill these walls with. They’re just so white, so clean, so inviting.
I don’t think you need to be any kind of artist to know the feeling. That overwhelming urge when there’s a blank piece of paper set before you and a writing utensil in your hand. Something should be there, something needs to be there. Doodles, words, scribbling, a magnificent piece of art exploding out of the fog of boredom and spontaneous inspiration.
Look at all of this room for activities!!
And here I am, inactive, staring at the walls that aren’t mine, at the walls whose owners wouldn’t likely take to my reasoning.
They aren’t even the textured kind of walls, the kind that look like someone just hastily splattered paint everywhere, no, they’re flat. They’re blank and flat and cruel.
I like to imagine what it’d be like if the walls and ceiling were all made of white board.