THE WALL

A town, perhaps more of a little town, but like any other, small and cozy, with tiny streets and wide avenues, occasionally a visitor comes across a petty park with a few benches and one fountain or forgotten statue. I say, quite ordinary, as there are many others in the world. Yet not as ordinary as it seems at first glance, it just has its own special secret. Tell me, how many little towns have their own secrets? Huh? I almost forgot to mention, there’s still a spacious square in the middle, surrounded by houses all around, but behind it is a small alley, and at the end of it is a wall. Ordinary, not so, not anymore. What do you think?
Well, to continue, there’s a little alley hidden back there. Not dark, not narrow, just right. Just enough to comfortably avoid two pedestrians without them actually noticing if they don’t want to. And maybe that’s why the locals walk here so often. Lost in their thoughts and the events of the day.
The sharp reader has just asked, and that as the secret is supposed to be, and the equally prompt narrator of this story replies, no, that is yet to come.
So, an alleyway, a perfectly normal one like any other, only there is a wall right in the middle. That’s right, the wall, but it doesn’t stand parallel or perpendicular like all the other walls, but diagonally. It’s dressed in a shirt made of colours and signs. On her head is a red hat, a little scratched in places, from protecting herself from the sometimes intrusive fingers of the rain or the meddler sun.
The wall, then. It’s so strangely calm and gives the impression of a wise counselor. Almost as if it were bending over the strangeness of the day. It’s as if it wants to stroke his brooding tones and say, it’ll be all right again. The sun always shines behind every cloud, I know that better than anyone. I’ve been standing here for centuries and it’s always the same.
Ordinary visitors, just shaking their heads, pass it by their sides, from left or right, they don’t care. But then there’s them. Who? Who knows, who they are. They just stand facing the wall and start tattooing it with their stories. The others just stand there in deep thought, looking for answers. For what, what do I know? That young man over there writes her his declaration of love, the one he’s afraid to really say to the lady he passes by the wall every day. Perhaps he’s afraid of rejection. Everyone who discovers her has put their secrets into her. Winged guests occasionally look down on it from above, and when they lose interest in what’s going on below, they fly a little further away. At night, four-legged visitors wander up to it, roaming the darkness. In the morning they are replaced by an old man in a grey coat and his friend, who occasionally barks with pleasure. He circles her cautiously on both sides, sniffing curiously now and then, and then he and his grey-haired master go on their way. Where to? I really, don’t know. That tiny lady from the opposite shop, who always has a smile from ear to ear, just looks at her during the day. Like she wants to make sure everything is as it should be, and then she hides out the door. Yeah, I really don’t know why she does that.
That wall over there, what has it heard about stories, never untold one. In the centuries that it has basked in its fleeting glory, it has heard hundreds and thousands of secrets and wishes. It dresses itself in the most varied patterns and colours. Day after day and never otherwise. It has stood here since time immemorial and no one knows when or how it came to be here or who built it.
And so, in its bowels, I hide my greatest secret and I will never tell it. 

(04.03.2024)