That's an odd concept.
Something that nothing gets through.
A perfect wall. A world on this side and a whole world on the other side.
For most of my life I've had this feeling that I'm bouncing off a rubber wall. No, I don't live in an asylum. But I have this persistent feeling that there is another side to my life that I can't get to, that is blocked from me by a wall that is so perfect, so complete, that I can't even see it.
I've spent my life looking for openings, without thinking what an opening looks like, or what I would do when I found one. To pass through an opening, I have to give up what I have on this side, without knowing what I'll find on the other side. Suddenly the life of searching doesn't seem that bad. It's more comfortable to search than to find. Answers to life questions are more beguiling than the questions.
To pass through an opening requires only trust. Nothing else works.
Jump off the cliff and learn to fly before hitting the ground.
I think a lot about water.
There are moments, often when I'm near water, at the shore, or in the shower, that I feel anything is possible. Maybe it's the endless continuity of water, that it's inside all living things, that it covers the entire planet, in the land and in the air. It comes to me, what the first single cell of life must have thought when floating in a primordial sea:
Anything is possible.