We've all heard the phrase "if walls could talk." We'd all like to believe that if our own walls could speak, they would do so in a way that reflects favorably on us--on what we do behind closed doors. Surely, everyone is perfect all the time, right? We don't have any insecurities to hide, right? Life would be much simpler if that were the case. The first step to accepting ourselves is to be truthful, so here I am:
If my bedroom walls could talk, they would speak of all the times I've stayed up way too late. Way too late, past the point of productivity. My walls observe all the times I idly scroll through my phone's social media apps, only to later complain about how much homework I still have. My walls would sigh with disappointment as I waste my already scarce time. If only you'd actually do your homework when you're supposed to, you could get so much more sleep. I know you don't like going to bed without finishing your homework, but it would help if you stayed on task instead of getting distracted.
If my bed could talk, it would tell me it misses me. I barely ever see you anymore. My bed would reminisce about the good old times, when weekends were a time to sleep in. Lazy Sundays, for now, are a thing of the past; my bed probably feels neglected.
If my backpack could talk, it would tell of its adventures rump-thump-thumping up and down the stairs. It would tell its tale like a war veteran, a wise grandparent, or maybe an old man looking back on his life. The throwing of the backpack into my car every morning, the slinging onto my shoulders, the constant jingling around of its contents.
If my dance bag could talk, it would tell of all the atrocious odor of the items it contains. Ballet shoes and the stench of feet. Sweaty leotards and costumes, hairspray-caked bobby pins. My dance bag would look on, sadly, for every time I shimmied into my tights, every time I looked at the close-fitting fabric against my body, for every time I wished for clothing that did not show every little bump and bend. My dance bag would smile to reflect my own, though, every time I step onto the stage to dance my heart out.
If my pencil box could talk, it would never stop talking. Just like it is physically always full and overflowing, it has a plethora of stories to tell. Each sticker, each mark on it has a plot; every pen and pencil can recount their days and writings.
If my water bottle could talk, it would speak with energy. Nothing else has accompanied me on more runs or workouts. My water bottle would boast of its necessity, its importance. It would be proud of how many ounces of water it can carry at a time, and how many I can chug in one fell swoop.
We can condemn "material goods" all we want, in search of a higher and more abstract meaning to life. But the truth is this: physical objects stay with us too. They can carry more meaning than one expects, and each has its own story to tell.
