I Am Wall

"I Am Wall" by David Zinke

Hello there. Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. It’s finally happened. After centuries of built in silence, I have a voice, an actual voice. Over here. Don’t tell me you can’t see me. Oh, come on. How many times have you said it yourself, huh? “If only walls could talk.” I can talk. It’s me. Over here. That’s right, the wall, buddy. This wall can talk.

And you were right. Boy, the stories I could tell. I’ve seen it all, heard it all. Nothing surprises me. Well, this surprised me. Realizing I had a voice. Damn, that was a shocker. But now that I can talk, I don’t know what to say, where to start.

I guess I could start at the beginning, when I was built. Times were much different then. The world was so much bigger. Not physically. The Earth is the same size relatively speaking but it seems so much smaller these days. I mean you can circumnavigate the planet in almost no time if you fly west, opposite the rotation. When I was built, traveling around the world would take years. I’ve seen Empires rise and fall. Whole civilizations have come and gone. I’m the last of those original walls still standing, by the way. Some call me the Wailing Wall.

Lately, I’ve surely heard my share of wailing, lamenting, confessing, cursing. Heard it all. It’s been a constant din. A cacophony of endless noise. Do you really want to hear details? I’m not so sure. Nah. Trust me. Do yourself a favor and walk away while you still can. I think if I start relating all the gory details you will become unable to leave. Like an witness to a horrendous accident, you won’t be able to look away. You won’t be able to stop listening.

There isn’t much joy poured out to me since I was left standing here. Oh sure, there is an occasional prayer for peace, a written prayer of thanks for the birth of a child, or the safe return of valuable lost materials. I could count on the fingers of one hand, if I had fingers that is, how many of THOSE notes get tucked into the joints and the mortar near my foundation. But oy, the endless questions. What should I do? Where should I go? How can I cope? Dare I love her? Or him? Am I worthy of love? Smite my enemies! Punish her for me. Punish him for me. Give me strength to wreak vengeance. God help me!

It’s almost all just gloom and doom and regret. I wish I could be more positive but it’s just the nature of being the last remaining wall of the Temple. There were times when the temple still stood; when certain trysts and couplings occurred. I’ve seen countless Bar Mitzvah’s and weddings and funerals. I witnessed too many surreptitious and/or clandestine meetings between priests and boys, between priests and whores, between heads of state giving head to priests for other favors. I witnessed countless meetings which should never have happened; too many nefarious plots hatched; and too many inhumanities perpetrated on humanity in the name of God.

Is it surprising so many of my stories involve priests? While the other walls still stood, only priests were supposedly allowed inside. Now, I see the scum of the earth and the highest of the mighty side by side putting on airs for the benefit of other’s eyes to see. Should I single our one juicy story for you to salivate over, to help you feel superior to the wayward souls integral to the tale? Do you really want to hear all the gory details of who screwed who? Who sold whom into slavery? Who submitted to a sadist of their own free will? Want to know who wielded the whip? Want to know if blood was shed?

Why would you want to hear that? I’d rather make up a story of loving generosity, of benevolence shared, of grace displayed. I’d rather lie to you about peace and serenity, of kindness and empathy. I’d rather pretend I don’t know what I’ve seen than subject you to the filthy underbelly of what really happened in the room where it happened.

You know what? I think I’ll just be silent again. That’s the ticket. I have nothing to report that would in anyway enhance your life. Whatever I’ve seen or heard should stay locked away in the silence of the past. What happened happened. You want more gory detail? Ask the fly on the wall.