Walls

Josh MacLeod

I pace quietly back and forth, alone in the small, dark room. Of course, there is not much room for me to pace but this does not bother me: it has not for some time. I pause, the stone around me as bleak and cold as it always is, but continue my pacing a moment later, unsure why I even halted. I look towards the cracked window -- so small with bars so thick -- and see the bleak landscape outside, an emptiness more frightening than the walls of my cell, even more desolate than the empty spaces here. An idle thought bounces through my mind to try and dig my way out, and I stop dead in surprise. It has been a long time since I thought of leaving, longer still since they would let me leave if I ever succeeded.

I walk over to the wall and slowly touch it, feeling oddly reassured by the strength and unyielding nature of the cold stone. I reach up and touch the ceiling easily, its weight over me a comforting presence. I wonder for a few moments "Why don't I ever feel claustrophobic here?" but gave the matter no more thought. With a sigh I reach downward with nails blackened long ago by dirt, but stop and look. The floor is as dirty and thick as ever. No animals have burrowed up into my room, nothing has ever left it. I frown at the floor, still not quite trusting it's solidity and slowly begin to dig at it's worn surface, as a child would a sandbox.

How long I dig I do not know, but the light in the room changes somewhat, fades, brightens, then darkens again and I feel tired. I feel tired, but I am satisfied: the floor holds. I can not dig through it. A strange notion enters my mind to wonder what will happen if I ever get out, or what I would do. I force my mind away from such thoughts with old ease and blame them on lack of sleep.

I decide to go to sleep and walk over to the cold, hard bed. The bed is stone, like the rest of my ce -- room, and fits only one person. It seems comforting, at least for me. I snuggle deep into it and wait for sleep to come, wait for the blessed darkness to envelop me and hide my thoughts from me.

But not even darkness can conceal thoughts forever; eventually light must come through or you must strive to reach through the darkness for it. No one can hide forever from themself, or from truth ... no matter how hard they try.

I awaken with a pounding headache and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, though I can no longer recall the nightmare I have woken from. I begin to pace the cell -- the room, I remind myself sternly -- again, but actually began to feel nervous, even hemmed in. I paused to study the ... newness? ... of such a feeling, for I have not felt this way in a long time. Long time. It feels odd to feel this strongly about anything, especially to be so nervous but somehow it is right. I choose to not study my thoughts too closely but instead, driven by some obscure impulse and need, walked towards the only window again.

It is with great surprise that I see someone on the other side, in the other cell. I had thought that no one was this close to my cell any longer for I had seen few people in many days -- I no longer recall how many. A strange hunger comes upon me to speak, to hear this person reply, to call out words and feel ... what? What do I wish to feel? Warmth? Friendship? Compassion? I snort mentally and laugh at myself for having such thoughts and turned away from the window quickly.

Yet that was not enough. Day after day the shadow touched me, caressed me, and I felt some warmth from its cold that blocked the feeble sun. It was puzzling but I felt that this person was a good thing, that having someone that close was helpful somehow. I had the urge to speak, to prove this was not a figment of my imagination. Something tells me I have felt this way before.

Such thoughts, of the past and the person outside (especially of outside) bother me deeply and so I shy away from them, afraid of what they portended. Dare you reach out to touch? My mind asked, proof of how little sleep I had been getting that I dared entertain such a notion. But as much as I tried, I could not forget this stranger. It was like trying to forget a mountain, or a sun, or a car, or -- or much else that was outside. Or. Or. Or.

Why am I thinking of outside? I should not be! I consider cursing the one who broke -- is breaking -- my tranquillity, but a part of me hungers even for that brief contact. I am ashamed to admit that I feel an urge, a base and disgusting need to reach out and touch this creature, to convince myself that it even exists. To know, and maybe be known. I am disgusted but cannot stop myself: it comes to me that there is a point at which one's will cannot stop your mind, a point beyond which you cannot stop yourself from thinking.

What? I think all the time! I scream to myself but receive no response.

It frightens me deeply that I was waiting for one.

Has it been so long since I have talked to another that I truly only speak to myself now? Have they all ceased to exist to me? It is their fault! They made me run away, made me hide!

But they still are out there? Can I deny that? A bitter laugh wells up out of my chest, half pain and half shame. I have been denying that for a long time. For a moment, I wince at the odd echoes the sound makes and then realise that I cannot recall the last time I made a sound out loud, let alone a laugh.

I felt something open then. The bars seemed thinner and the walls less dark. I could laugh. And I knew I wanted to hear others laugh, wanted to communicate with them, to speak and hear a voice besides my own answer. I hungered for society, for the masses. I needed ... others.

But I need nothing!

No response, and none is necessary, not in this time nor place.

It is not fair! They locked you in this prison! No one cares about you and they threw you in here!

I cannot ignore that voice, but I am no longer sure if it's my actual voice, or simply doubts being raised against my voice. Can I hold such contradictions in me and be sane? They did that, I respond silently to myself. They ignored me, and shunned me and as a result I live in this cell. But why do I remain here?

I gaze at the cell walls closely. They are paper-thin: I have made them stronger than steel. I have made them stronger, greater than they were likely meant to be. They created the cell, I chose to make it my tomb. They alienated me and placed me in this cell, but I threw away the key -- I and no other! I scream, in despair and anguish and the other, dissenting voice fades away in the face of this bitter truth. (But even now I hear an echo of it, saying: Are not all truths bitter?)

I weep and run to the bars, to scream and yell for anyone, for help, for aid, but mostly just to yell. But I have waited too long and no one comes -- I am not sure anyone even can. No one is out there and the shadow, the other who waited, has long since departed. I am alone and cannot find the key. I know their must have been one. Once.

The cell darkens ... so small, but the door so very far away. Is there even a door any more? I scream then, cry out in anger and fear until my voice is raw and claw at the walls with desperate strength. but I have made them too great. They will endure even if I no longer wish them too and none, not even I, have the strength nor courage to break them. We all have walls around ourselves, barriers and masks we don't want to let others break or see. If you weaken one wall, you weaken them all and if you strengthen one, you strengthen all your walls and hide. It doesn't matter what from, the walls build themselves against love as easily as fear. I have turned my walls into a prison ... and I see no way out.

- Josh MacLeod (1998)