BLOG NUMBER TWO: ENOLA/ALONE
Received some interesting things in the post recently. A letter from Downing Street. And then this:
AN INSTRUCTIVE GUIDE TO REALISING THAT WHICH IS NOT AND SHOULD NOT BUT ACTUALLY IS.
Drain your mind of all its clutter, then, if you will allow it, please attempt to visualise a room in your house. A space you know intimately, yet do not occupy at this moment in time. Maybe it’s the place where you sleep; perhaps it’s where you wash, or even where you eat. An area of absolute sanctuary. Of safety. Think upon everything that defines it: the shape of its furniture, the decorative colour scheme used throughout; the smallest, oddest sound that only you ever seem to notice, the unique aroma that can always be smelt upon returning from a two week vacation.
The details that you know so well.
Can you picture it clearly? You can?
Now, slowly turning your neck, feeling the stiffness of tendons as they ever so slightly twist and tighten, shift your attention towards the furthest corner of this chamber.
What can you see when you look in that direction?
Are you sure of that?
Is there something slightly different? A sense of a shadow that certainly doesn’t seem as if it should be there. A hint of shade that appears to be awfully out of place.
Do you see it?
Then look again.
There! Yes, of course, how could you have ever missed it!
Especially as you know, deep down somewhere within the churning gut of your soul, that it has always, always been present.
Fix your gaze upon this stain and marvel as you realise what it really is. The sudden rush of clarity as perception shifts and things slip into focus.
Not a cobweb, nor a gloomy smudge created by a trick of the light.
It’s what you think it is. It is what you know it to be.
It’s a man.
A thin figure languishes there, their back turned towards you, whatever features they may possess hidden away behind long, straggly, greasy hair that was once jet black but is now flecked through with grey like running dollops of pigeon shit, their face and its unknown expression mere inches away from the wall.
Close enough, you think, to lick the plaster should they choose to.
This stranger is muttering to themselves, one constant phrase repeated, an inaudible loop occasionally interrupted by a stifled giggle. It’s obvious that they have something important that they want to say; a message they want to tell you.
But it’s ok.
They’re happy to linger until you are brave enough to slowly advance, step after sluggish step, your heavy feet dragging as if caked in mud, shaking arm outstretched, one lone finger pointing, courageous enough to finally, gently, tap them upon the shoulder.
inch by painful inch,
the slow rotation
of a bruised apple being peeled,
to finally reveal their
share a truth with
you unlike any other.
This isn’t just in your mind.
This is happening right now, all the time, every day, now and forever.
I presume that everybody else has been sent a copy as well?