The sun lights up the wall in front of me, licking its white pebble ice cream.
It's at least ten feet high, and old, with no openings or doorways. It's the point of no return; a dead end beyond which the living cannot travel. The kind of wall you can rely on to kill you outright when you drive your car fast enough at it.
Only ghosts can walk through walls. That's who I am now. I live outside of the land hemmed in by this wall. The walls we have built all around us to keep us safe. They are labyrinthine; endless, high enough to be seen from space. It's no use trying to climb up or over, or going around or underneath.
I want to smash down this wall with my bare fists until they bleed, and this white wall stops being white and becomes bright, coke can red.
A crumple of metal and a punctured hiss of wheels. Glass fragments fall on tarmac like tiny bells. We are dolls thrown on the midden, our heads cracked open like bad eggs.
I stare, flatlining. But the wall is no longer solid and flat. The stone is changing, atom by atom. I can reach out and put my hand inside it, and feel it move.
I close my eyes and open them again, thinking I'm deceived by a trick of the light. I glance at the sun in the sky to make sure it's still there, and not laughing at me, and it is, and it's not. The wall is swaying gently like fronds in a pool. I can reach into another dimension, or space, or time.
The secret of the universe is revealed to me. It's all illusion. Nothing is real. Nothing is anything at all. And if nothing is real then there are no rules or laws or karma or voices in my head telling me I shouldn't or can't or won't or better not.
I can do anything or nothing.