The Wall

Sitting. Eyes on wall.

Breathing.

Noticing the cracked green paint. The black ant crawling across my field of vision.

And the wall said, Watchyu lookin’ at?

I didn’t respond, just let the question be.

I would’ve painted this thing blue.

And the wall repeated, Watchyu lookin’ at?

The question hovered like a blazing shiver.

I could make out a lotus among the cracked patterns.

Then the wall bellowed, I said, watchyu lookin’…

It was then I realized it wasn’t the wall questioning. I was projecting—it was me all along.

Then Huang Po said in a pastel voice, The perceived cannot perceive.

Those four words fell like an ax.

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