No-man's Land

No-man's land.

Some might think I'm a tad crazy, or at least overreacting, but I have to say it.

We took down all our wallhangings and pictures yesterday. Two years ago, when we moved into the furnished apartment, there was absolutely nothing on the walls. I got permission from my parents and instantly began dashing paint on paper and hanging up the results when they were still damp. The walls quickly lost their whiteness, not from dirt, but from drawings. The drawings were everything from the amazing hills here to the hills and views of the home I had left. They were imagined pictures from stories I wove in my head, the only bit of the stories I would share with others, then or now (maybe another time, but...).

We moved in August, and at the year's end, I cut out all the pictures from the calendars and put them up, too. The walls sprouted more and more color as the years progressed, and I was happy.

Suddenly, it was time to take down all the pictures, which I dutifully did, deciding which to keep and which to toss, which was difficult. D'you know, we've got to stuff everything we want to take with us into eight suitcases? We can't take a moving van, and my mother doesn't like shipping stuff, so we're going to have to fly. Thank God that our new-old place (it's actually the same place we lived in before) has furniture! Anyway, I took down the pictures, feeling satisfaction in ripping things off the walls, trying to rip out my sorrow, I think.

After that, I sat down at the computer and did my usual stuff, and was glued to it for awhile, which, unfortunately, is my way, whether I like it or not. There's no library here.

I glanced up when my sister came in proudly advertising her new backpack. Had I been standing, I would have staggered backwards. What had happened to my home? The walls were as bare as our first sight of them. But because I had lived here for so long, it was still home, yet--like when we moved last time--it had become a hollow shell, that I am as loath to leave as to stay in.

I couldn't sleep last night, not for the longest time. The wall beside my bed was empty of vacations, family and friends staring me in the face and murmuring lullabies; I'd taken down all my photographs. The wall perpendicular from the bed was empty of the brochures I'd carefully arranged there. The light from the living room was empty because I couldn't glimpse pictures blocking it. It was empty--something weird from a horror movie or something.

I finally got to sleep, but I woke up at six thirty in the morning (my mother, as a teacher, is giving final exams and had to start awfully early!). A cup of tea rejuvenated me, but I'm still tired, kind of edgy, and--yes, still--in horror at what has happened to the walls.