The Wall of Silence and the Man in the Clock Hat. By Carlos del Puente

The wall was not moss green, it was not even green. It was the color of silence after a snowstorm, a white that absorbed all other colors, a white that whispered secrets to the stones. It had no cracks for birds, but holes that led to unknown dimensions, where time folded in on itself like a broken measuring tape. From these holes, not birds came out, but words. Words without sound, words that slithered like silkworms across the surface of the infinite white, weaving stories that had never happened and were always happening at the same time. A man, wearing a hat made of melted clocks, approached the wall. He had no face, only a mirror reflecting the emptiness of the sky. He reached out a hand, not of flesh and bone, but of solidified smoke, and touched the wall. The wall spoke, but not with a voice. The answer came in the taste of rusty metal in the man’s mouth, the scent of rotting jasmine that suddenly filled the air, and the sensation of invisible ants crawling up his spine. The wall told him the story of the universe before the Big Bang, the story of nothingness that contained everything. The smoke man walked away, taking with him the silence of the wall, a silence that echoed louder than any thunder. The wall continued to speak, its invisible words weaving reality, undoing it and reweaving it in an eternal, incomprehensible cycle. The wall was not moss green, nor was it even green. It was the color of silence after a snowstorm, a white that absorbed all other colors, a white that whispered secrets to the stones. This immaculate, almost ethereal white became a canvas where stories came to life, where every crack and every hole were doors to alternate realities. The wall, in its stillness, was transformed into a portal of words and sensations, a place where the tangible and intangible met. A man, wearing a hat made of melted clocks, approached the wall. This hat represented the passage of time, a time that slipped through his fingers like sand. The man had no face; instead, a mirror reflected the emptiness of the sky, a void filled with possibilities and mysteries. As he extended his hand, not of flesh and bone, but of solidified smoke, a link was created between the physical and ethereal worlds. When he touched the wall, it spoke. But not in an audible voice, but through sensations. The response manifested itself in the taste of rusty metal in the man’s mouth, in the scent of rotting jasmine that suddenly filled the air, and in the sensation of invisible ants crawling up his spine. The wall revealed to him the history of the universe before the Big Bang, the history of nothingness that contained everything. A tale of chaos and order, of light and darkness, of what was and what could be. The words emerging from the wall were not mere sounds; they were living entities. Words without sound, words that slithered like silkworms across the surface of the infinite white. Weaving stories that had never happened and were always happening at the same time. The Resonant Silence of the smoke man moved away, taking with it the silence of the wall, a silence that resonated louder than any story-telling thunder. This silence was not the absence of sound, but a powerful presence, an echo of unspoken truths and kept secrets. The wall continued to speak, its invisible words weaving reality, undoing it and reweaving it in an eternal and incomprehensible cycle.

By Carlos del Puente