Those white walls of my room know everything. They have heard my sorrowful sobs and my hollow laughter. They have heard me weeping and my agonising yowl. They've heard me scream and writhe in pain. They've not seen it, but they've heard my loneliness when the symphony of silence played louder than the ticking of the old clock. They have heard my anger as it erupted like a dormant volcano, filling the room with incoherent words. They have heard my insanity as my tears suddenly turned into a maniac's laugh.
A laugh that resonated time and again reminding me how I had let my sanity slip away with time.
They choose to remain silent, after all I have suffered, they choose not to speak. They've bore the pain of the punches I threw at them, the way my nailed clawed at them, tearing away the white wallpaper away. The way I smeared the thick red blood that seeped out of my wounds. They remained silent when I talked about my frets and twinges. They made me wonder if they were friends who knew that what I was suffering from or foes who were secretly judging my existence.
I saw ears.
Here and there and everywhere.
I giggled at my madness.