That Beige Wall is a Cage, and Your Lease is the Lock
That Beige Wall is a Cage, and Your Lease is the Lock
The silent contract of suspended adulthood, quietly demanding we don’t get too comfortable.
The picture frame feels heavier than it is. The cool glass presses against your palms, a dead weight of intention. You’re standing in the middle of your living room, but it feels more like a waiting room, a space between other, more important spaces. Before you is the wall. It’s not white, not cream, but a specific shade of landlord beige that absorbs light and joy in equal measure. You have a hammer. You have a nail. You have the perfect spot, just to the left of the window where the afternoon sun won’t cause a glare. And yet, you are paralyzed.
The frame leans, a silent testament to unfulfilled intentions against the beige.
This isn’t a rational fear. It’s a low, buzzing anxiety about a 5 millimeter hole. It’s a phantom conversation with a property manager who squints at the wall and regretfully informs you that patching and painting will require your entire $575 security deposit. So the frame goes back on the floor, leaning against the beige expanse, a temporary solution that has been temporary for 15 months. You tell yourself you’ll hang