My
favourite wall for lying close to and staring at has a dent in
it. It's been painted over now, but way back in the day, it very
nearly was a fantasy world to disappear into and never be seen
again. This dent at its inception was a tiny little nick in the
wall created by a falling bed, but it came about at a time in my
life where I was searching for answers. I was so desperate that
hours and hours were spent gently wearing away at this dent; at
first with my thumb, and then when progress became too slow,
knives and sandpaper. The end result was a dusty fissure in my
favourite wall that looked like a baseball bat had cracked into a
car door. It was right above the skirting board, and I was sure
that if I washed away the dust, I'd be able to see behind the
wood and find answers. They had to be there; they were nowhere
else. I filled the same saucepan with water that I had grabbed
when the brussel sprout peelings had caught alight, and made my
way to the hole in the wall. It was tricky to pour the water into
the dent and down the back of the skirting board to wash away the
dust; I eventually managed to wash away the dust by pouring the
water on to the wall much higher up and letting it trickle down,
in and through, washing away all the dust, and leaving a small
hole at the back of the skirting board, where all the answers to
life's problems must be.
The
water kept on flowing though. I'd taken the saucepan back to the
kitchen, cos there's no need to leave mess anywhere, and on my
return the water was still flowing from the dent down behind the
skirting board. Kraazy. This truly is the stuff that dreams,
metaphors, and bad fiction are made of. This water filling up my
fantasy world and drowning any answers that were residing therein
- or floating them to the surface for me - had no obvious source.
It was just appearing from nowhere. Lesser men might have called
it a miracle, or the result of chipping too much of the wall away
and allowing rain water to flow into the house, but I didn't
really care why and how it happened; I was far more interested in
finding my much needed answers. Actually, I tell a lie...
Actually, I tell many lies, but only one that I'm gonna undo
right now: I did care about the water, but not why it was. I
cared about what the water would do. If I didn't do something
about it, then it would continue to wash away my favourite wall,
weakening it, making answers too easy for anyone to stumble upon
and eventually the wall would just crumble and rob me of one of
my favourite ways to get through the day: lying and staring.
Water
may well take years and years to wear away at a wall, but all the
answers to life were within my grasp, and at moments like that
one is a god, and thus forced to think eternally. It was a bit of
a quandary, I can tell you! Do I discover the meaning of life
(it's 'Be' by the way), but also lose my wall, and leave
undeserving scum to stumble into enlightenment too, or do I stop
the water and seal up the hole until such time as whatever I saw
glinting down there is deserved by everyone? That's a lot of
pressure to put on a young boy who just scraped away at a wall
cos he was bored. (Ok, so I lied too about my original reasons
for making the hole, but that's not really the point is it? You wanted
to believe me and so you did. Just cos I was lying, doesn't mean
your insights/incites are any less valid). I took the safe
option. I sealed up the hole with semen-encrusted tissues and
painted over the top. The water, of course, stopped because it
was no longer wanted. I'd like to say that my life actually
changed for the better from that day, that the thought that I
could find all the answers easily enough any time I wanted to
would be enough to make everything fine and dandy and groovy, but
it didn't. Everything was completely shitty after that. And I
can't go back and open up the wall; I couldn't justify to myself
that it was worth it for society as a whole, and I still can't. I
am left suffering. But I have seen the light and water, and
perhaps one day, when I'm a very old man or woman, depending on
whether subconscious yearnings take hold, I will again... There
you go. Make a fucking movie about that.