You’ll stumble on my walls. I build them. I wonder if everyone does. Let’s go with yes…everyone builds walls of some kind and they hide behind them. They protect themselves from all the hard things. They protect their heart or their mind or their passion or their pain….whatever is eating at them, overwhelming them at the time.
Let’s talk about me. My favorite subject. My walls look a little something like this.
Imagine a beautiful garden. There are flowers and trees and a cobblestone path. The sound of water, perhaps it’s the ocean. Butterflies fly and birds sing from the tops of pink trees. This is the middle of my heart. The softness. The poet. The artist. Walk further.
You’ll find yourself in a field where the wheat grows. It’s dry and warmer and much more easy to see in the distance. The hawk flies overhead. The trees are all but gone. The earth is what you smell. The dry ground that still springs life but is much less filled with magical beauty. This is the edges of my heart. The pragmatist. The thinker. The girl stuck in her own thoughts. Walk further.
You’ll find yourself on ground so dry, it cracks beneath your feet. There is nothing that grows here. It’s not warm. It’s cold. The trees have no leaves and everything is grey. It’s an endless trail of darkness and gloom. The coldness you feel comes from the icy stone walls I construct. I build like a master. I build and I’ll see you coming in the distance, but you’ll stumble on my walls. You’ll feel the rubble under your feet but ahead of you is more. Getting to my garden is an arduous journey.