My red wall, a red bridge

At night, when I have nothing to do, I disguise myself. I like to think I am Japanese. In front of my red wall, I take pictures of myself. A portrait of a night of introspection.

So, my dad is in town and he likes my red wall. He doesn't know for how long I've wanted to have a red wall. He doesn't know how much I've dreamed of making Japanese art, writing poetry on my walls, making paintings with words. Because words are things that keep me company. Words from songs, from books, words that come from people.

Words that come from people: those are the ones that I enjoy the most. If they're not too loud, if they're not rude. If they're delicate. I run away if you use the wrong words. I hide. My soul goes away to ache in a place where you can't see. I am capable of forgiving you for your wrong words. I also use words that I don't like. I'm spunky and feisty sometimes. I wish I could use these less and less. That night, I wasn't Japanese and I will never be. But I wanted to. I wanted to be serene and have tea and listen to those short poems that say so much. I wanted to hear the sound of water running. They sound like music. As I wanted to be able to talk to my dad and not feel like he's a stranger. But, at least, he likes my red wall.