Vapour
How do you keep count of happenings?
You make a mark and another and another and before you know it you stand in a prison cell, with every single wall covered with your own art. It once happened to me. I was a prisoner of war, making my marks, day after day. I created hundreds of drawings to try and escape a one- roomed shit hole. One day I stood back and saw all my creations and all I wanted to do was to escape them. The sight of my insides on the walls made me ill. There was no means by which to destroy it, this art. I had no matches. I had no toilet. I had saliva and a stomach and I started making lunch out of my soul.
I wanted to prevent me spilling myself on the walls again, so I asked the guards to take my charcoal and to take all paper. Before long I was in a cell with no means to create drawings. I tried not to dance around the room, but the shadows on the stone walls formed such beautiful pictures, I had to dance and look at my shadow. It took only a few hours for me to feel suffocated by the stories told by my shadow, so I asked the guard to block out all the lights. I would go into the black hole to not see myself, I thought.
Inside the hole was black, pitch black like the eyes of demons who sometimes come for me at night. I started putting my mouth against the stone cold walls, making vapour on the surface. That way I would know that an impression of me could exist on that wall for at least a few seconds. It would be my own transparent breath-ink flowing for just a little while until the wall would suck it in again. I thought about this and there was no way of asking a guard to take away my vapour.
Unless…
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