Let it be known, a man lies within these walls. Not any man of character, nor one in any sense of the criteria that defines man, but rather, in the burden that is our walls. A man lies within my walls, in my cell––one far more comfortable than his own. His walls grow thinner as the winters push. 

My walls, he takes it, are “wearing bare.” Bearing himself to that which we call nature, to that which is wearing out walls thin. Thin walls and hearty conditions juxtapose the nature of man, does it not? Man is far superior to that of which have no walls but the delicate lace of their skin. Animals, I take it, have surpassed man in that respect. And yet, here a man lies within these walls, his eyes a bloody red, skin a triumphant blue. He is alive. 

I am a generous person: let the man whither beside me, as long as he, himself is separate from me, from us! We know the man in the walls is nothing but a piece of dust under our collars, a forgotten piece to a board game jammed under the couch. He has nothing! We have everything––exorbitant amounts of things left empty whilst he sits with the ridges of his skin and the tips of his nails. 

As I sit within these walls, I can hear but the faint tapping of his tune. Artificially accurate, painfully dutiful to all that keeps time. Tap, he plays, tap, he plays. If you were to hear a man within your walls, the men with long batons and short hair would arrive. They’d burst like dogs at the scent of meat. The man in the walls is that meat, however sour in taste. I am alone with the man within my walls. He, although on the verge of death, continues his tune. I flourish on the fruit of his demise, creating with the remnants of his stability. A metronome is all he is, my bow moves ajar once more as the measure begins. 

Within the walls, as his bones begin to deteriorate, his tapping continues. Brought out by the clapping on the walls, the water slapping him. The walls are wearing thin! Are they not? And yet, the walls haven’t moved an inch, nor has any wall gone away. The man sits in his cavity, free of all that is human––save myself––and begins his tale. His walls are wearing thin, you must help him, he says. And yet, you listened to the tapping that he bore rather than the cry inflicted upon him by his situation. But was there ever a situation if the walls never wore? If the walls were a free necessity he was accustomed to? As though you were the informant to another world, one in which he was not a part of, not ever. He has nothing, save his mind, withering just as he says the walls are. No walls breached, we discover, as the realization sets in: no walls were ever in danger. 

Aren’t we just like the man in the walls? Bellyaching over the most rudimentary of things, stabbing with pain over whispers, crying over inability? While physically detrimental to his surroundings, we are safe, warm, comforted. We share the inquisition that is emotion. Whilst I journey to support my country, he lies in dazed bliss. As I prepare for what lies ahead, of work and education, he might ponder why his head hurts. We are different in the respect that I know what he will never. 

Identifying myself compared to this man is difficult. We have a similar lack of power in our minds. Surely, one might look to his extremities first? But if not, how are we to be distinguished? How is any man, gracing us each with one glance to understand us? 

My person, identified only by the faults of my character, shall have no ill-consideration when comparing itself in the light of others. The man in the walls is no different.