The Voice kept trying to turn him back—“there is nothing behind the wall except a space where the wind whistles”—but he refused to believe its repeated lies.
And yet he could not find the source, hidden somewhere within the dimensionless shadows of the vertical, the angled, the edge.
He himself was scrabbled, suspended out of sight, waiting underneath many meaningless layers of illusion. The indifference did not bother him; neither did the newsprint words strewn carelessly about.
He considered himself abandoned, lost inside an unwritten story. Curious strings embedded his thoughts in articles torn from the back page.
But what had happened to his body? It was a puzzle he could not figure out. He could see, listen, think. But his position never changed.
Was his mind an orphan, birthed incompletely, accidentally, a false start left unfinished?
Was he himself the Voice?
I did this collage a few months ago, and I’ve been waiting for the right words to pair with it. Merril’s prosery prompt at dVerse,
“there is nothing behind the wall
except a space where the wind whistles”
from “Drawings By Children” by Lisel Mueller
found its way into an old freewrite page in my notebook that contained the phrase newsprint words strewn carelessly about and gave it some shape.