The White Walls; My Silent War
- Gods Biscuits Official
- Aug 27
- 18 min read
Updated: Sep 9
These walls don't hold the ghosts of strangers; they cradle the echoes of my own survival.
Here, in the sanctuary I have meticulously crafted for nearly two decades, the air isn't thick with sorrow but serene with intention. It hums not with the ghosts of past lovers—for there have been none within this sacred space—but with the gentle purr of my pets and the soft strains of Parisian jazz.
This apartment, this nest perched above the New York City chaos, has been my witness. Its walls have absorbed the scent of Trini curry, watched me sketch designs late into the night, and held me in their quiet embrace when my own body became a battlefield.
You see, I have always understood that some places can become sick. The Bible speaks of it, a creeping plague within a house that taints all who dwell there. But the sickness I came to know didn’t fester in the plaster of my home. My hauntings were not of brick and mortar but of bleached-white institutions, of sterile corridors that smelled of antiseptic and quiet despair.
The demons I faced wore white coats and wielded clipboards, their pronouncements echoing louder than any phantom’s wail. The hospitals—those were the places with the spreading mold in their very foundations, a spiritual rot that gaslit the suffering and devoured the hope of the vulnerable.
