the impossible kid
by
captain mission

i never told you how i first met the impossible kid did i?
you will need a drink, go fix yourself one.

listen.
in the uk on the edge of north london suburbia, edge where i called it and the no go border of burnt joke which was not so much as burnt but singed, scalded and leaking sulphur there stood a horrible h p lovecraft like house. 
now, my memory is not great on this, but it looked from the outside as though it had been burnt badly by a raging fire, a massive searing black swipe where flames must have consumed the exterior walls licking their way through the dimensions and corridors. the windows boarded up and graffiti covered with the most unimaginative expressions you can imagine. 
i guess it was the seventies in the bleak suburbs. the house itself was huge.
it was a structure that looked the main road face on and every week i would walk passed it apprehensively but my eyes would always be magnetically drawn to the ominous black front door, and that strange oblong that lay across it's centre. the letter box. 
the letter box was so black it sucked my eyes in. 

i remember the weather was always so very bleak, either cold or some form of rain was falling, usually heavily in my memories. that house created a atmosphere around itself, like a barrier. it was set far back from the rest of the streets building, in fact after a few years the council posted a row of billboards blocking the house. except that there was small a space between them that allowed me unrestricted access to that damn letter box, the focal point of which i could not escape, and one day i clambered over that wall, between the billboards, i couldn't help it, my tiny hands and legs just followed the impulse and i ran to the blackness. i didn't even know what i was doing, just running up that hill through the winter sleet until i seemed to reach that letterbox and look through almost instantly falling into a dark envelope. maybe i passed out, lost consciousness. i can't recall. 

years passed. i was getting older but no bolder when it came to that house, it spooked me. completely instinctive, no rational reason for it, except it had this physical effect upon me, hairs would stand up on end, my heart would pound. i'd feel cold and clammy, my eyes betrayed me every single time as i looked straight into that void for at least a few seconds as i rushed passed, even when i was a bold anarchistic london youth.
i was still to young for science, far to young to do anything other than imagine something really scary was attached to this old house, my imagination filled in the gaps with the obligatory  ghosts and monsters, mutants and aliens, whatever it was they were not for me.

years must have gone by as i was now a teenager, some sort of punk rocker emerging, head filled with hunter s thompson, william burroughs and various other stuff. i'd been particularly impressed with aliester crowley particularly his mountaineering exploits. he was the ultimate outsider and i admired him for excelling at it and shoving it down those crusty victorians and their empire. so i imagine at this age i was quite a different individual than the kid version, the influences of my unformed identity were on a trajectory with my older self.
anyway's i had two friends, ian and stuart and one evening we had all met on a triple date taking the ladies out for dinner or something stupid.
the fact is on the way back we walked past the house and ian suggested we go and have a look through the window.
'come on, it will be great, i've always wanted to.'
stuart said, 'no we can't do that.'
'it's empty, been that way for years.'
'i can't do it, i can't go near it,' i said nervously.
the girls all lit up and watched us arguing, and as i cast my mind back through time they looked all bored and disenchanted, wasting their time with three idiots but in my immature brain i thought they must be thinking, 'that mission is such a coward, he's such a wimp' or words to that effect only much more hurtful when you're an impressionable teenager type.
what would HST do, what would burroughs be whispering in my ear if he was standing near me, i know what would crowley do!
how could i ever write anything without experiencing something, everything, i thought is food for the writer.
and my body just went into motion, leaving my brain far behind. 
i clambered up over the wall much to everyone's surprise. i looked down at ian and stuart, 'i'll go have a look, just stay right there.'
the girls looked surprised to, i checked them out hoping for some sign of approval then leapt over onto the incline up to the house. i stalked upwards carefully without sound, just in case. about half way up i looked behind me and could now see my friends all leaning on the wall looking up under the billboards. they probably couldn't see me against the dark incline but they would see me at the front door soon. 
i turned away from expectant faces and started ascending. 
about halfway there when i looked up i saw the big dark door and the letterbox, in the late evenings light it all looked spooky and mysterious. 
i attempted to look away but my eyes were transfixed as they were held in gaze with a magnetic force i couldn't break. 
i can't recall what flashed through my mind, i had the spirit of adventure within me but know i was feeling some deep apprehension. 
that strange sensation that stops you in motion, that fixes you to a point in space time. fear is the emotional response a life force responds a threat. the processing power in my young brain kicked into some primal choices, run back down or prepare to defend myself but my body seemed to move before my mind had even chosen.
i ran up to the door and looked right into the void. it happened in a fluid action, my feet propelling the rest of me along right up to the door itself, the door getting bigger and bigger and more detail revealed itself. the red flecks of paint along the frame, the range of red unveiled, from pale pastel to rich blood red. crimson and fire engine red, lust and burgundy reds. the grain of the wood, where it was burnt up and damaged, the details flooded in but that letterbox remained consistent. i pushed it open and looked into it and suddenly found myself pulled into it's thick overwhelming void.
i reached out like a desperate drowning man and found a hand. it grabbed hold of my hand and we seemed to draw one another towards one another. the hand was much smaller than my own but the grip was strong. we seemed to pass through one another and then out i fell back into the entrance, the black skies clouded and threatening storms. i dusted myself off and slowly walked back down towards the slope and a voice inside my mind said, 'where am i?'
the impossible kid, my younger self, inner child i guess, somehow travelled through a wormhole into it's own future as i indeed must also inhabit his present, my past. at least his inner voice will be able to guide him although i was not wise or enlightened, i was just a kid from london myself. i guess the best i could do is be a friend.
but the impossible kid, stuck in me has also proven a good friend, it keeps reminding me to play with everything, it's hungry to learn new things, it likes to look at stars, it likes animals and adopts a nice innocence that keeps me from my jaded cynical self.