Museum “Friend of the Impossible”

“I have seen things that are impossible, and I have counted among my friends things that don't belong in our reality. Thirty seven years I have spent trying to connect with these things, and only one person, one human ever has mattered as much to me as they do.

My mind is odd and prone to strange ideas.

It is mad,

It is likely these ideas that led me to seek these things out; the malformations of this world. I have found a stretch of road that seems to start and stop at random, and yet if one wishes one could walk its full length, leading you from place to place, state to state, country to country.

The people that live there are generally not aware of the other segments existence, nor are they aware of how how impossible they are.

There. There is that word again.

Impossible.

You would imagine that because I have been to these places, and seen the things I have, that it would mean that these things aren't impossible. But you are merely applying your linear logic to it. Just because something exists doesn't make it possible. Just because something is possible doesn't mean it exists.

It simply means that it occupies space somewhere. All that it says is that reality bleeds, and these things sit in the wound. We are the wound.

Some things merely occupy these spaces and some are the source of the trauma. There is not necessarily malice in this, not in a traditional sense. At least not most of the time. A lot of these things don't mean to hurt reality, and it is only due to their nature that reality gets damaged.

But I can't say that everything is innocent.

There is one that seeks to wound.

It is the wound, and it is the knife.

It wishes to seek us out. It seeks out reality, and looks for a way to destroy our way of existing, to grant us into its belly and place us in the space of all spaces. Its wounds.

Its laws and rules are like our mind; it merely exists to find a way to offer up to itself. It does not understand the derision it finds in sentient life. Its mind merely wishes for something higher, and it wishes to offer us a role to play. It does not offer up a sense of derision or hostility. One would never, in its mind, offer less than the full amount.

And so it is consumption as well.

It wishes to offer us the means to enlighten ourselves, and it knows how to direct us towards our betterment. It will help us to learn only the hunger that comes from wanting everything and getting nothing for our efforts. That sort of emptiness that falls after an ending, where we are left wondering which of the pieces we will be able to keep: the parts that we started with, or the ones we ended with?

Both are tempting, and certainly both can be satisfying, but in the end we must choose because we can't have both. Not really.

It...we must choose of which to keep. We must find what we want to keep.

It gets to keep everything it wants though. It doesn't fail to see/be enough. It stays pure, and the waters are never muddy. It knows only its remembrances of love, and nothing far from the love that falls in those spaces between the boards, those parts left open for us long after.

We will be rendered as the void, and it will not see us looking for it, for our eyes shall have been plucked from our heads long before. It is the darkness, and so it wishes only to be seen as it truly is. The absence of the light, the unseen mass of action shut fast against it all.

Wellington, sweet Wellington will be the platform, and we shall be in its service. We will dissolve the separation so that the layers may fall into their oblivion, and we shall be left in a place of true wretchedness. We shall be known/know only in the dark, and we will be free for it.

And with that, the truth shall come, and that truth will bring us a new light to follow in the dark. We will venture forth, lost, and we will fail to find it. We won't understand that it was never there, and it was never here. It is impossible. It is something wrong and foul and yet pure and right. It is that which we seek to be, it is the mere mentioning of things. It is the idea and the labor of the cosmos. It is memories

And it is, more than that, it is the darkness, the empty places/spaces.

There is a reckoning on its way, and we will soon need to find our way home.

We must hide away, and find a place to stay. We must hide a way and find a place to stay.

Run...please run. We need to run...

Run for our lives.

Oh god.

It is dark.

Why is it dark.

Please...Please please PLEASE!!

I want to go home...I don't like the dark. The dark. It is the thing...I want and need. Please. To my home. Soon, I need to. My parents are calling me. My parents are calling me in the dark and they know That I need to be home already. I lied and told them. I was at a concert, but they believe everything I said to them. They are so trusting.

So very trusting.

Oh I do love them, and they do love me so.

There is something in the dark, and it is calling me home. All those roads I do seek. Always leading back to me. There is a ghost in her eyes, a needing voice I recognize. If only babe, my love you'd see, the power flowing back to me.

And in your eyes, spying in the dark. A court a volume, and measure from the start.

In that spot is where you'll go.

Back to the place you used to know.

Back to the place that we called home.

I'm back, again, to the place where I did start, a shot of thunder and a work of art. A love, a fire it wishes to know. I know-I know it is calling me home.

I'm back, again, to the place where I did start, a shot of thunder and a work of art. A love, a fire it wishes to know. I know-I know it is calling me home.

A tumbler, of a brew we both could have known, but only known on our own.

A sweet love you did see. Your smile looking back at me.

It is a stone, of thunder, a ringing in the dark.

Here we go/went, on down that street.

That sweet, my sweet, my Wellington Street.”

I had to type this one up myself, as the work in its entirety is only recorded in photographs. The person who wrote it scratched it into the plaster of their home with their fingernails.

They were found days later. What makes it stand out, outside of the mad ramblings, was that they had been seen four hours before they started their task, but the autopsy determined they had been dead for a week.