do not think i will let you in there so easily. you need to make a journey just like i do anytime i come by. it is a part of the visit, sometimes the most important part.
so tell me, did you also rummage through you gransparents' wardrobes and cupboards on a gray rainy day? do you remember that feeling when you pulled the drawer and for a second you wildly hoped a new box would appear, or that you missed something in the farthest corner. as it faded, you faithfully went through every single box, checking all old diodes, the heavy leather camera case, the tin box with dog-eared postcards, faded photographs taken out of the black-sided albums, grandfathers old honorary medals... it could take an hour or so and, eventually, you would find nothing new. but the faith, the smell of something almost physically close, so close that you could tell there is a scent lingering in the air but not close enough for you to register any notes - they tempted you back.
this wall is no exception. as the graveyard is situated on a hill, the wall hold the side of it that faces the street. recently it has been renovated and i am still mourning this rational gambit. luckily again, it is saved within my lens. although i miss it, it feels as if someone installed automatic plastic door instead of the regular entrance to the secret garden.
it maybe is a mere detail. or - is it?
these bricks carry are varnished in many layers with my imagination. each scrape is a potential story, a reason, a splinter of energy. a statement. all of them question marks, triggers of clay. like Neil Gaiman's childhood door hiding a wall. you face it and every time you can smell a mystery.
a crumbling wall under a graveyard hill. did the bricks fall apart on their own or did someone try to break through it? why so? we will never know. for even if the key remains, the door have been replaced by a neat polished wall. despite the key, the lock is no longer.
