The wall.
A boundary. A restraint. A barrier that pins me down, holds me still, paralyzed. It keeps me from life. From movement. From experience.
It’s always there. Always.
And I stay outside. Trapped. Motionless.
I feel the cold cement pressing into my back.
I am the one sitting, wedged against my wall.
Because life should be pleasure. Only pleasure. The highest pleasure. Anything else, anything that asks for waiting, effort, uncertainty, I reject. I throw it away. I refuse it.
Existence, why can’t you be only joy?
Why must I wait? Why must I struggle? Why must I bleed?
It rips me apart. It gnaws at me. It devours me.
It digs inside. It burns under my skin.
This is my wall.
Still here. Glued to my wall.
Because life must be perfect. Perfect as I imagined it. Everything must go exactly as I planned.
If something strays, if something slips, if something doesn’t match what I envisioned, then it’s wrong.
I stiffen. I clench my teeth. I tighten my fists until my bones creak.
This is my wall.
Clenched hands. Curved back. Tensed body. Muscles rigid.
Breath shallow. Too shallow. Too little. Eyes locked onto nothing.
But the nothing swallows me whole.
When I see pain, injustice, suffering, all I feel is rage. Hate.
It burns. It consumes me.
Why? Why do you allow this? Why does this exist?
I shut down. I harden. I lock myself inside my own hatred, my own anger.
I help no one. Not even myself.
I wither. I dry up. I become the emptiness I despise.
I become my wall.
And what if I were nothing? What if I had no real self?
What if I were just a nameless shadow? A name no one remembers?
This is my wall.
And what if I did exist, if I were distinct but separate, alone?
Alone. No roots. No ties. No ground beneath my feet.
What if no one was looking for me?
This is my wall.
Staying here. Chained to anger, resentment, fear.
Curled up, fists clenched, knuckles white, jaw locked.
Stuck.
Or
Getting up. Moving. Breaking myself open from the inside.
Tearing off dead skin. Doing something. Anything.
Enough of rotting inside. Enough of letting myself die in stillness.
Accepting that life is not only pleasure. Not only pain. Not only mine.
Walking. One step. Then another. Even when it hurts. Even when I shake.
Towards life.
Wall or “it is what it is…”
Wall or creativity…
Wall or movement and “I do what I can.”
Wall or trust… surrender… patience… waiting.
Wall or this very moment. Lucid. Awake. Moving.
Wall or accepting the cycle of life… illness… old age… death… loss.
Sweet little human, how much longer do you want to stay here?
Nailed to your wall, trapped in your beliefs, locked inside your fears.
It protected you, yes. In its own way. It kept you still.
It made you believe you were safe. But it is a prison.
You call it a shelter. But it is a tomb.
And you were not meant to be walled in.
You were meant to exist.
You are not the child of an idea.
You are not the child of a fear.
You are part of a Universe that moves.
You are part of Something that consumes and recreates.
So move. While you still can.
One step. Then another.
Rip out the roots.
Break the nails.
Tear yourself apart and be reborn.
Shatter the wall.
And live.
…Yes. I know how I want to spend the time I have left. Far from the wall.
And you, my dear friend, who took the time to read this fragment,
How do you break free from your walls?
