There is rumour of it, an inner room within, a particular space, though the entrance is bricked up, weathered and hidden from view.
Our experiences do not take us near it, not now. Indeed, they take us away from the place and with good reason.
It’s best if it doesn’t exist, this is the wisdom, best for everyone, ‘a wall of silence, please!’
And we acquiesce; we fear it, to be honest.
We knew the place once, and knew it well, but we had to leave, we won’t talk about that; and now the path back is overgrown, its existence widely denied.
‘I don’t know of any such place,’ is what people say, and these are sensible people, tuned-in people, people who wish for a bit more positivity, so you have to listen.
Though should you ever wander that way, beyond the memory wall; should you ever feel that it’s time, that it’s time, that it’s time to walk back down the path, still just a visible way – well, you may find yourself there, the old brickwork crumbling, as if it’s begging you to enter… and inside, if you stoop low, a soft and vulnerable space, as sad a child’s cry.
Some speak of this space, and they may be mad, but I myself am a witness, I have seen some who’ve stumbled there…
… and left laughing tears of ridiculous joy at the homecoming.