Tale about staring at the wall

There‘s a dot on the left side, that‘s a bit bigger than the other dots around.
Its borders are rounder.
It plays with the light and the shadows at the heads of the smaller ones.
This one is called out-of-breath.

There is a really small one on the opposite side.
This one is mostly ignored by light and shadow,
and even by me sometimes,
except when there is this pressure building behind my eyes,
because I first found it when I was drowning.

With eyes not seeing other living things anymore,
I stare at the other scratches and marks and scores,
and wonder what else to find within this wallpaper,
while having eyes too sad to see and too tense to close.

A friend once told me that he named the dots making up the wall that he had been staring at.
I did not completely recognize mine as company.

But I have the big one to stare at whenever I‘m choking,
and a small one that I find a second before my vision is blurring.
There‘s a mark that my view follows when an old memory makes me laugh,
and a scratch that means fear of falling down into darkness again.

The staring at the wall only ever ends when my witch awakens and hands me a hot chocolate to replace the wine.