It's never about the walls. That's simply a party trick... Tell someone something about themselves that the think they have hidden away, yet shows up in the lines around the eyes, the nails bit to the quick, the moon-shaped semi-permanent marks in the palms of their hands.
We crucify ourselves over and over, everyday.
Tell me one thing, and from that I can draw five or ten more things about you. Things you wanted others to know, but were perhaps afraid to share out of fear of judgement, and scorn.
It's not about the walls, which are really nothing more than houses of playing cards, which I breath gently on, watching bemusedly as they come crashing down, revealing all.
It's about the cards that are hidden under the table, stacked into a small pile, the edges biting into the sweaty flesh of your palms as you grip them, holding on for dear life.
These are the cards that intrigue me the most, the cards detailing your life, the desires, fears, secrets, abhorrances, and wonders.
It's about the cards you clasp in your hands, the Fool on her one way journey, the Magician and High Priestess, intertwined together, bodies moving in unison, bathed in sweat.
It's about the Tower, throwing down upon you Judgement; are you afraid yet young Fool?
It's about your dreams, young Fool, dreams such as the Six of Swords protecting your vulnerable form, while the Pages dance around tapping lightly with their Wands, whispering words of the day the Fool becomes the Hanged Man.
It's these cards, dropping gently from your slack fingers, that I desire most to read and know.
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