Sometimes, talking to you is like talking to a wall. Is that the first, second, third or fourth, you ask? Don’t get cute, I say – this is a serious matter. Though I’m not here to scold. Speaking to a wall, at least where I come from, is the highest of compliments. However, within the working world exists the unfounded belief that “talking to a wall” is an insult, or a sign of something far more sinister residing in one’s psyche.
When it’s part of a storied communication tradition between man and thing. Before walls, we talked to trees and stars, wood piles and seashells. As long as there have been walls, there have been walls to talk to. Long before the pyramids, human beings found emotional refuge in conversing with something, anything that doesn’t talk back.
Maybe it was a nonjudgmental mud brick, still wet from its recent insertion into a gaudy hut with substantial Nile frontage that provided a good many Egyptian the genuine support they so desired. Bricks don’t ask questions. They don't make arguments either. Their sole purpose isn’t to needle or nitpick – they are only there to listen. People comment, chiming in with their opinions and thoughts whether you want them or not. Not drywall or particle board. Not straw or redwood. You find a good wall, a legit sounding board, and you hold on to that sucker for dear life.
Don’t ruin your relationship with screws and nails, hanging weird, expensive art and idiotic movie posters. Keep the surface fresh and clean, so the lines of communication always remain open. Watch out for smudges and scuffs, too. This is how you treat a real friend – one that lets you wash them with antibacterial wipes every couple weeks.
That’s the beauty. A wall allows you to speak your mind without needlessly inserting themselves into the conversation. But it’s still quite different than a monologue, which requires a sturdy and spacious balcony.
Should you, for whatever reason, actually want the wall to respond, try throwing a rubber ball at it. Since that usually works for me.
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