‘Walls’ By Heinrick Brocher

Walls
Heinrick Brocher

There were woods, trees, runnings of waters in the wildes for sumptuous refuge and amicable companionship early on in his life. He would suffer his mind and feet to wander as liberally as they would in those days of abject rebellion. They were his home and classroom more significantly than any other he was to encounter in his formative years.
Everything is breathing in this finite life and the bronchial tubes of the world are made of wood. The winds blow and the leaves of the trees clap their hands, but we may just as well be oblivious to the whole procress. Water seeks its own level and therefore there is sound, but it may escape our noticing somewhat or altogether, for all we’re going to know. The grasses grow according to their silent coding, but we do not perceive the progress of it.
These are the textures of what is, among the process of life and you’ll find mud to be more tangible than dust when it comes right down to doing the laundry. The movie theater charged a nominal fee for posing a flat-out rebellion he was busy for, a place to camp out in. Campus life was wearing on me enougb to be on the carpet for my sanity, which escaped me, until it was all over. I ignored every danger sign, up to and including the Sheriff asking me to get dressed to take a little ride with him. You might say I was busy smelling the roses while Rome burned.
No, I wasn’t going to jail, although I’d been doing plenty of misbehaving to get me there, I suppose. I was taken to a sort of hospital, where they handle cases of not being aware of the context of life, the way it requires things of us. I wasn’t aware there was such a place. There was a squawk box and a people storm and I opted out the door, first chance I got. There were things I learned about in thrashing about aimlessly, but was caught soon enough and rudely introduced to sensory deprivation. Fighting exhaustively, I got a needle in my butt all the same. Left to my own devices, I writhed in contemplation of my own juices, until eventually learning about what the fabric of things is.
Things have this quality we call life, which man has learned to destroy. There are things which have existence, but not life and man has ways of impacting those the way he impacts life. Doesn’t he cherish anything? The molecules of existence are more stable than life, because they orbit on a lower frequency than life. If a man spends time with existences, he’s well advised to slow himself down. It’s an observation, but I’m able to coexist with walls.

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