Ever since I broke up with my girlfriend, I’ve been familiarizing myself with the Wall.
Every evening, I stare at the Wall. The wall is hard and rice white, with a marble like finish. It stares back at me, with a gaze that can only be described as cold and unrelenting.
I tell myself that that’s what breakups are. You have to stare at the wall. It’s not the most comfortable thing, but it’s better than the other alternatives. Sub-par dates, Hinge doom scrolling, frivolous (and wrong) connections - all time suckers.
Yes, it’s a probabilistic process, or so I’ve learned. But who knew probabilities can hurt so much - aren’t they just some kind of ratio. The wall, on the other hand, is forever one.
And so I oscillate between the process and the wall. When the process becomes too meaningless, I greet the wall. The wall is always there. In its granduer silence, and like a stretch that is way too painful, I resist the urges to escape into comfort. Through every passing minute of silence, I feel my character expanding. It feels great to be building character.
Maybe one day the wall will be cowered by my gaze. Surely it’s imparting into me its own essence.