Face the wall

That’s him. Him. That’s who I want to be today. Him. The one who could punch your lights out, fuck you up and fuck you over. And then fuck right off. Hate on his right knuckles, hate on his left. Bile in his heart, with his blood run­ning poison and his mind run­ning on empty. That one, please.

Unless. Unless, no. Not him. Him. The other one. That’s who I want to be today. Him. The one up there on the stage. The one with the mis­sion­ary zeal in his eyes. The one for whom even God isn’t enough of a wit­ness. The one whose mouth sal­iv­ates with pos­it­ives. Give me his out­stretched hands and his cupped claws of explan­a­tion. Yes, abso­lutely. I under­stand it all now, thanks to him. So him, please.

No. No, I’ve changed my mind. Sorry. I want to be him. Right now, this minute, this second. That’s who I want to be today. Him. Make me him, please. He walks the walk and he talks the talk. He’s a man of the people and a man of the world. He’s got the salesman’s pat­ter, the gift of the gab, the words at his fin­ger­tips. I’ll take that one, please.

But, oh, I don’t know. What about him? He’s got his head in the clouds and he’s not com­ing down. Not for any­one. He’s lost and he doesn’t care to be found. He’s seen it all and done it all. He’s gone. Well and truly. He’s stepped off. Risen to a higher plane. He’s all over. All over and out. Make me him, please. Please make me into him. That’s who I want to be today.

What? Iden­ti­fic­a­tion? But I don’t have any iden­ti­fic­a­tion. No pass­port, no. I’m a nation state with my own bor­ders. No driv­ing licence, none. I’ve never even turned a key in the igni­tion. Bloody group? Oh, blood group. No blood, sorry. I’ve bled it all out. I’m dry and cracked. You can’t take my fin­ger­prints either. I have none. No fin­ger­prints. I don’t lay a fin­ger on any­one, for fear that I’ll leave no indent­a­tion. No marks. And I’m not on your elect­oral records either, because I leave no trace of hab­it­a­tion. National Insur­ance? I’ve put noth­ing into the state’s cof­fers. I’ve never paid my way or my dues.

Oh, but you could take my pho­to­graph. You could. You should. You should make me a pic­ture. Burn me onto film. I want 36 exposed neg­at­ives of me, all in the same blank pose. I don’t want to give away any clues. About any­thing. I want passers-by to stare into my blank eyes, and won­der if they know me, if they knew me. Maybe won­der if they even are me, but that it’s some­how slipped their mind. I want com­plete strangers to stop and think and ask them­selves if they could be me, if their know­ledge of being me has some­how slipped their mind. Browse the faces, then choose one to wear.

Come with me. After the explo­sions, when the winds die down and the panic sub­sides, we’ll go and pay our respects at the walls of the dis­ap­peared. Scan the rows and try to identify our other selves. They’re here some­where, I know they are. I don’t need to dig in any rubble, remains and rus­ted metal to find burnt flesh and broken bones and scattered pos­ses­sions, because I’m not there. I’m here. Here. Here on a pic­ture. Here on a piece of crum­bling board. Here, flap­ping in the breeze, held down by a single drawing-pin. Wait­ing to be chosen. Wait­ing to be claimed. Wait­ing to be placed under glass and kept for posterity.

Frame me. Nail me. Hang me. Look at me.