Echoes in Oblivion

I live in a home of whose walls are hundreds of years old. I like to imagine what has happened within these walls for centuries; how many cries it's heard, how many deaths it has witnessed, how many beautifully suffering silences it has bore without the power to abolish them. Unlike some people, I am a thinker. I imagine that the way these walls listen are much deeper than I am capable of listening; for I cannot hear the sweeping of the beautiful girl's eyelashes against her cheeks when she blinks away her tears to hide her sadness; so I do not comfort her. I imagine that these walls are hopeless with lasting wonder for how deeply one can suffer within the silence of their own thoughts and the beating of their own heart. I believe these walls have witnessed many a heartbreak and much grief throughout the centuries. It has heard fires burn wondrous souls to charred remains as its flames crackle and lick the heart of its enemy; it has heard aspiring dreamers amount to nothing, stopped only by the interference of a mistake that was enough to shatter their faith; and their cries of helplessness, of utter discontent and sorrow, that erupt from their hollowed hearts and echo throughout these walls. These walls have eyes not to see a smile, not to tear with a griever, not to comfort a lost wanderer; but with ears, innocent enough to stay silent and yet robbed of their youth enough know what the world felt like from the inside out. It is quiet enough to observe the victims of passed destinies and failed dreams and powerful loss; and it feels compassion with a burning desire to empathize; but these walls are voiceless, sightless, tasteless. They feel only by the sounds they hear, the only things that indicate what it must feel like to live with senses; to be more than just an onlooker, and rather, a friend. I imagine these walls yearn to come to life in time to save the future from their foretold notion of inevitable doom; but alas, these walls, better known as life--listen to our cries, move along with the clouds, soak up every ounce of emotion they can get themselves onto. These walls surround us. They hear everything, feel with us the cries we wail, the longings for which we scream, the wonders for which we laugh. These walls are shelter, water, clouds, space; the air, the breeze, enveloping us in its effortless beauty, if even but for a moment; one moment, long enough to bring us company in times of solidarity, or simply in times of deep thought; but short enough to disappear without a trace, much like the very invisibility it possesses. It is fleeting enough to allow us to forget that we live within walls that can hear us.