On a Wim
There are many things that the boy can see when he sits at the window. He can see the house across the street, where nobody has lived since before he started watching. That house is his favorite subject, both for that reason and in spite of it. If he looks up and down the street, which he does often, he can see other buildings. People live in these buildings, and so they are homes, much like his own. They are not houses. Wim likes houses.
The home that Wim lives in is not at all unlike the other homes on the street. No, in fact it is the same in every apparency. He keeps it that way, out of fear. He fears any difference in his home. What if the difference changes it? Makes it a house again? If it was a house, who would watch it? Certainly not Wim.
These worries are not at all unlike Wim’s usual worries. These are indeed his only worries. He finds his worries have been reduced significantly ever since he purged his mind, not so long ago, when he made the perfectly logical conclusion that if the mind and body were one, which they were not, then to cleanse the mind one must perform a physical act, an act of finality. An act of force. Of power. It was for that reason that Wim had cleaned his house. He cleaned his house with his body and so he cleaned his mind.
The more he cleaned his house the more it became a home. He liked it less that way, and he liked it more both for that reason, and in spite of it. He hadn’t even noticed how dirty the house had been, but the more he removed from it the more he wondered how he had ever made it so long. He cleaned the house until no unreality remained. First his mother and father, then he took the plunge and went for the dog too. He had hesitated on that last, but being friends with reality was not close enough, and so he too had gone. Finding a place for them hadn’t troubled him. The basement is not truly a part of the home.
And this is a home now.
Wim sighs and gets up from his place by the window. His thoughts are too rich today. He can not properly watch the house in such a state. He wanders about for a while, trying to space out the events of his day, which are so few now as to induce boredom if they are tackled all at once, leaving the day empty. He has been looking forward to it all day. Finally he stops putting it off. He opens the Door and looks down the stairs. A smile. They’re coming along nicely now. Almost washed out. Soon these delusions will bother him no more.
You go outside and practice screaming. We'll play music while you're gone.