I have but a vague recollection of a time when I could see above these walls. I know not how I built them, for they are much taller than I. My masonry skills are impressive. These walls and I—we seem to have an inverse relationship whereby, As I shrink, they grow. As I crumble, they solidify.
They have stood for so long, that I have forgotten their purpose. I deduct that it must have been protection. Though now, I am uncertain from what. My only certainty is that they have failed. They have not shielded me from the only thing, From which I have ever needed saving.
Myself. This externalization of demons. The inability to find them out there. The realization that they are actually within me, Leaves me relentlessly grappling to break them down. A prison made of my own inadequacy.
As I stand surrounded by their enormity, I notice that they are made of glass. Perhaps I chose this material, as I longed to watch them shatter. It is possible that their annihilation was the very reason for their fabrication. There must have been a part of me that wanted to watch it all come crashing down; A wistful spectator, of sorts.
As I see my soul mirrored in the eyes of another, I sense a wrecking ball on the horizon. A paradoxical sorbet of exhilaration and anguish disturbs the placidity. Fear. What lies beyond the subjective safety of such walls? I contemplate calling off the demolition but it has already begun, And luckily, walls can’t run.
The first devastating blow knocks me down. I am surprisingly un-inclined to get back up. I like it here, on the ground. I observe the beautiful destruction; shattering bricks made of betrayal, rejection, and heartache. And the shackles that I never noticed around my ankles come undone. I can barely see through the rubble. It will take some time to adapt to wide open spaces, But I can breathe again. I can breathe, and I can love, and I am free.
The Seychelles, June 2017.