The Invisible Wall

In a previous post I wrote:

When I occasionally force myself to imagine the real person - to remind myself of the difference - the person I imagine gazes upon me warily from a distance: still, silent, cold, aloof and with little sympathy. I imagine her disdain for me.

On reflection I realise it is absurd to consider these words as a description of the real her. They are as much a confabulation as anything else I think about in relation to her.

What we actually have here is an inanimate, two-dimensional projection of what I think her stance with respect to me would be. It presumes that there is a stance which, of course, there usually isn't. Aside from the rare email from me there is no reason to believe that she has any reason consider me at all.

Yes that is all it is - a painting. To be hung on a wall. What better wall to hang it on, than the one I conceived of a long time ago...

There is an invisible wall between myself and her. All there is left for me to do is ponder the question: what colour should I paint it?

I never did paint that wall though I do seem to spend a lot of time decorating it with curios.