Unbreakable

This involves lots of metaphors and can be interpreted in more than one way.

It's killing me.

My fist smashes against the wall. Like a tiny fly that hits a window, I forget how insignificant this force is towards its sturdy frame because all I see is my desired place on the other side. I hear a small crack as my fists make hard contact with it again for I refuse to give up, refuse to give in. It hurts, sure, and blood trickles down my knuckles and drips downwards, staining the white floor which support prevented me from falling down into the abyss. Unlike you ever did.

I don't know why I try, really, when all you do is sit on the other side, slumped against the wall, snoring, daydreaming, anything but actually being bothered about the situation. It's not a problem to you, not something that can be solved with enough effort, apparently not something that affects you. It's just a part of your life you don't give a damn about.

Screaming, I punch the cement bricks, crying out for it to just break. All I want to do is get to the other side. The cold, black wall stares back at me heartlessly and I think I hear a bitter laugh at the back of my mind, mocking me for my inability to cause just a crack in its invincible being. I refrain from breaking down, no matter how tempting it is.

My arms are tired, aching, and I just want to sit down and give up but I don't want to be like you- just lazing there, wishing for the wall to fall but not doing anything to make it happen. Maybe you don't care about it as much as me. Forget that, you don't care. You'll like it if the wall came crumbling down but until then, you'll just pass the job on to others. To me. You refuse to help but you make a conscious effort to ask everybody else to do so. "Go on. Try." You said. And I suddenly wonder if you were truly just mocking me.

I can't take it anymore. The grass here used to be so green, the flowers so beautiful...But all is dead now. I know I never bothered about the expanding wall before but now I do. I have to get to the other side. I know it's somewhat selfish. It's not like I'm going to die here, I'm just going to get bored. I don't want to get bored. And the fact that we're already "friends" but separated by this wall frustrates me.

I scribble a letter and throw it over the wall. The wind carries it up and tosses it over and in a matter of seconds another slip of paper flies down from above and I know the handwriting's yours. I read it and am once again left wondering...are we indeed friends? We've talked so much through this passing of notes but I can't know for sure. These words, do they come from the heart, are they sincere?  How am I to know if this wall refuses to leave and you refuse to help me bring it down? You only acknowledge the   "me" I am when I hold a pen but are you afraid of the "me" in real life? What is it, really, that stops you from helping me tear these bricks down? Or are you not one bit bothered about truly knowing each other and these "notes" are just another past time of yours? The love and care in between each hand-written line...Is it fake?

I want to know. Please, tell me.

I punch the wall again, this time crying out for you but I know you don't hear...or you pretend not to. I want to meet you, the real you and I'm tired of our little games of paper tossing. I want to keep you company not through flimsy slips of paper but with my fingers in between your warm ones or our shoulders against each other. But until you agree to help me, this wall remains unbreakable.

I toss a blank piece of paper over.