The ideal wall in the eye:
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(Last Saturday, the ideal wall was that of a fisherman's hut at the Test Buch. lean, and watch the harbor, fishing smacks. Breathe the scent of the oil and mud. The dried oyster shells, gutted, broken, and the strong smell of fishing nets.)
the wall When I
child, I dreamed of the day I'd be big enough to make the wall.
Later, I encountered what I imagined as never to open doors with a key. Key. It was just that I find, I choose the right one, and I open the right door if by chance she was not ajar.
And then my eyes were thumped, my fingers were injured: the doors were only sham, hiding the concrete wall of a hellish. Gray, sad, a height unreachable.
I then remained for a moment. At his feet. I got lamented.
I do not like walls. I hate them.
The ideal wall? This would be the one through which we can pass, as the through-wall. This would be one that would sink a punch, like paper mache, instead of getting hurt hands. This would be one that would be translucent, like a huge bay window and long to infinity, never cloudy or milky, through which I could glimpse. This would be one that can still be solid for the moments of fatigue when the road is too long, too hard, and you can not find a shoulder to lean on. It would be a knowledgeable guide, we brushed his fingers along its route, not to get lost in the dark too dark. There would niches where a candle would shine, so we can always find. Do not get lost and disappear completely, body and soul in the bitterness of a life of sticky grime. The ideal wall? It would be everything at once. It would be lovely low wall, when we walk through some small villages so remote that there is more than stones, moss and flowers in a cottage garden to flavor your nostrils. The ideal wall? It is intangible but material yet. As a membrane. As a pocket. Maybe like the womb. Maybe.
