If walls could emote, would they smile or would they scream? Would they weep of psychedelically painted crime scenes and of piercing last-straw arguments, or would they laugh of smoky birthday parties and of fizzy New Year’s Eve countdowns?

If cameras could gossip, what would they confess the ratio of candid versus posed truly is? Would they whisper about the anger behind that perfect family photo; could they smell the sharp peppercorn and the sticky spaghetti behind every Instagram? Would they speak of their numerous USB cards, their numerous lovers––were they all different or all ultimately the same? And would they preach that beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder or that beauty is truly in the eye of the shutter speed?

If tattoos could narrate, what colors would ooze from the black ink in order to fully paint the tattoos’ stories? Would tattoos remember the person who kissed with laughter or the person who bade a no-eye-contact goodbye? Would tattoos remember the time their canvases felt broken, or the time their canvases felt triumph? It could be both: the times their canvases felt triumph from being so broken from a moment that that breaking moment was to be as visible on their bodies as it was invisibly impressed upon their lungs. Memories can make it hard to breathe sometimes. But if tattoos could ooze color, would the designs of hearts and of words shade themselves a lovingly bold pink, a heartbreak red, a lonely steel blue? Or would the hearts and words stay a licoricey carbon black?

If keys could remember, could they hear the click of every secret, of every guilty pleasure, the hidden people in hidden places? Or they could remember more innocently: the rumble of every car engine readying for adventures – or the gut-dropping spluttering click of a dead battery. What if they could hear the satisfied sigh of every heel-dragging worker turning the lock at 6 p.m. after Monday-through-Friday traffic? Keys must feel amazing to always have someone panic over them when they are lost, misplaced. It’s a very human need: to want to be worried over.

If bathroom mirrors could mother, would they give tough love or tender love? They bear witness to too many cover-ups, so would they center upon beauty and how the definition is just as fleeting as the thing itself? How would they feel about caking foundation and brushing blush and swishing mascara: is the act of application for a boosted confidence or is it all simply a donned façade? Would bathroom mirrors be proud of the prepped signature smiles that they are flashed, or would they be saddened that spontaneous, goofy beauty isn’t seen to be fetching any longer? How would bathroom mirrors mother those who question their worth, those who are unable to answer if they are enough? And how many times have the bathroom mirrors already wanted to scream, “Enough for what?”

If feet could speak, rich with callouses from how many shoes and from how many miles and adventures, would they speak of the times they hesitated, stepped back? Or are the moments that stick the most the times when they themselves did not stick? If so, feet would be bursting to speak about the times they leapt––the times they outran the brain or the heart.

If our lives could be a video, after we are dead and gone, they would play out that we were adventure and science and also faith. We were whole and we were broken and we were unfulfilled and we were over-enthused. We were pictures and we were songs. We were stories. We were things done and things left to do and we were foolish because we didn’t understand that having “all the time in the world” just meant having one last tomorrow. And would our lives reveal that we lived for everyone else––or would they affirm that we lived for ourselves?