I’ve come to love the silence. I have long since stopped talking to myself. It has become a part of me. But it is never an empty silence, it is full of words scribbled on the wall, phrased scrawled across the the room. “Thomas Warlow 1981-“, “love is gone”, “all that you can’t leave behind:
“Things not to think about:
And then more: “to be wise you must first be a fool”, “there are no walls, this door is nought”, “I’ve come to love the silence”, “words are for the dead”…
And then there was a window, at first I couldn’t see much but as time grew by I saw mountains and lakes and a bright blue sky when I looked at it.I saw old trees as wise beings hunched from the weight of their knowledge and young innocent weightless girls dance by them. Outside, words of wisdom were scattered in the wind: “A wise man knows that he is foolish, he knows his advice is never absolute but it is always the least foolish thing he could think of. A wise man knows that he knows not much… A true wise man never calls himself wise, others do it for him.”
Foreign words on distant shores sprang out: “Il est interdit d’interdire”, “Errare humanum est”.
People call me The Madman. I no longer see these walls, there are no boundaries in my mind I am one with my cell and when finally I die as I know I will, it will keep me alive. “Words are for the dead”. The living have never as much use for their words as when they are dead. Because it is all that is left of who they once were.
Though my best words will always have their own wall, in front of the door, unmissable: “impossible is impossible”. A message for future tenants to ponder.
• † •
I was possessed, I killed a man in cold blood during a ritual people only do once in their lives. spirits possessed me and I gutted him like a pig, slaughtered his family and burned down his home. But this man had wronged me deeply and I had no part in what happened to him, my body tore him apart while my mind watched from the outside. I do not remember it well, it was dark and messy.
And so men came and took me away but I could not deny my body’s part in the act and so it was condemned to sit rotting in this cell as my mind roams free through the cement window. They say I am insane. I am starting to believe it.
Looking AT the window, it reminds me of a funny old film about two Americans and an Italian in jail: the Italian draws a window and says “do you say look at the window or look through the windows?” and one of the other guy says “I’m afraid in this case you’re looking at the window”.
I probably wont be able to answer to your comments this week (I’ll get to them as soon as possible), I barely got this up