Twice

Don't talk to the wood. The wood is carved and stained. It can't listen to you anymore no matter how much you want it to. It doesn't understand.

Don't talk to the universe. The universe says its too busy. It can't process you and entertain your meager thoughts when it has to process the stars, and light algorithms.

Your shelf left you three weeks ago. You can't put anything on it anymore because it decided it had its own stories to bind and carry between its rows.

Don't even approach the stone. You're still wiping the blood off your cheek from the last time you tried.

Talking to the grass might work, but only one out of every hundred talk back to you. Even then, the grass is busy and sways about in a way you'll never be able to.

The guitar never did listen when you said a thing to it. It threw notes and chords down your throat and couldn't grasp much after the letter G. It still thinks you're someone you're not.

You could talk to the courtyard. Occasionally the interested come by and leave powdered whispers in your ears. They pose and fix their hair too much to really empathize though.

You can talk to the box. The box listens and sometimes gives good advice back. But, it only opens once every two weeks. When it shuts its lid, its like it doesn't exist.

You should stop talking to binary code. It has a thousand other things to do than to answer your queries and entertain your thoughts. It's just as busy as you are. You should apologize to it for burdening it with so much.

What about the birds? The doves and the bluejay? They are around enough, but they have wings and you do not. You can't leave like they can. You aren't free like they are. You don't know what the wind feels like on your back above the trees.

You talk to lines the most. You feel safe even though you know its only arbitrary. You feel cozy and entrapped at the same time. No one really likes the lines even if they don't say it. You can guess that from the way they talk about them. Straight and curved. You talk and talk and talk to them even though its not good for you.

You make more lines with the lines and nobody likes lines so you try to build them into the cartoon version of your life. Make them have a purpose. Make them form your shapes on the storybook pages.

You're successful for the most part. Sometimes you will want to tell the universe, or the wood. You'll hint to the grass, the box, and birds. You might slip a word to the binary code, your shelf, and the courtyard. Never the guitar or stone. And you'll feel really lonely, except you'll have the lines. There can be as many of them as your like. They all tell you to get rid of the lines. The ones that know you two are friends. The lines are a bad influence. They aren't healthy and are deceptive and only make drawings visible when there's so much more behind the paper.

But how can you give them up? They are so clear. They listen. You know what they do. They will always have time for you. They will always be there to help you explain your world. You've never known of anything else.