The Walls Came Down

Wounded is my pride that I carry with me on my back. Yes, it aches. As I am caught between a senseless conflict between the illusion of greatness without foundation and the probing lasers of the observers. The latter feeds what is seen to the cycle mind, the mind on repeat. It's a war of projection in which there are no casualties but egos. I am thus left with a mood of inevitability, a sentiment of somehow missing my worth and my devotion while I am carried, weightless, to a new place.

I imagine I am floating, drifting, going where the wind takes me. It's quite apparent in this state that my emotions have been numbed and distanced from the limbs of my body so that they merely feel within me, without attachment. As peculiar as this may be, it is close to a freedom I did not envision. I can smile, but I do not find a drive to. My pride, the fortress of it, is crumbling into the dust from whence it manifested itself. I could shed tears if I held on, but I couldn't. I let go, and in limbo is not where I expected to be. I feel relieved that I was not suppressed aside and merely left to walk out through the gates as the walls burned and the sky turned a dissimilar shade of blue. I did not come out on horseback or in a carriage named Peace. I simply ambled down the path and the threshold was passable. I went through and in the next few shots, the citadel behind me, is falling. Falling.

I am no more. No more.

There is nothing left in the wreckage. The ruins deconstruct themselves as effervescent structures. Out of mind, they go. The dust cloud is clearing and soon the way will be free of distraction or blurriness. There will be vision. There will be truth. And there will be no corners nor shadows where there are no walls. No places for fear to hide, it has to finally see itself under the yonder, among the plains.

This place, the barren, the past forgotten and the now remembered, has always been here. From here, do I truly begin. As the seed in the soil, I lift up through to the light, and I flourish, unhindered. In this empty place, a wonder grows.

Suddenly, I see the things I used to see so differently,
I feel as if I've found a new reality.
Suddenly, the noise outside my window is a symphony,
A symphony of endless possibility, right in front of me.

Suddenly, I understand the meaning of eternity.
I'm reaching out my hand to touch you,
Now I see, suddenly.

Deconstruction

The dust has stopped settling which leads me to think that deconstruction is a process of transformation instead of a momentary event with a clear cleavable beginning and end. Walls that made rooms into aloof spaces now fall and bridge an inexistent gap that has puzzled me into mistaking reality. This gap, the line that separates the two innocent dots in the obelus, isn't really there, despite appearances. They sure can be deceiving. Or rather, my mind has interpreted it as a sign for division. After all, I haven't figured out how to divide by 0, and I'm no calculator.

The deconstruction of the room may, at first thought, lead me to think that there would be ruins left in the aftermath. Like the ruins of Roman amphitheaters, or the Greek Parthenon, or the remnants of Machu Picchu - places where people have been there, done that, then left whether by force of will, force of nature, force of obliteration or another force entirely (?). But it's not quite like that. The walls that fall (probably similar to the ones Beyoncé sings about in Halo) do not crumble and leave a mess then be abandoned without clear explanation. Their demise gently filter light in from the other side(s), so as the process occurs, more and more streams of light penetrate the widening crevices.

Forget the symbolic imagery of hope. Walls crumbling down is not an invitation for me to know that I can make changes in my life. It is beyond that. The deconstruction is a freeing of energy, of me, from the walled room of my mind. It is a release of a songbird out of two cupped hands. As the fissures burgeon, I reconnect with Being.

What a fantastic opportunity this is, to awaken and experience Life as a free man.

Remember those walls I built
Well, baby they're tumblin' down
And they didn't even put up a fight,
They didn't even make up a sound.

This deconstruction, I realise, began when I first constructed walls to keep myself from getting hurt as a child. An experience inside a box is not authentic, is not total, because it specifically excludes what is outside, even if it is rain. Thus, the fight for survival has been my search for Life. Amazing how it's been here all along and I never really noticed it until I became so asphyxiated that I had to punch a hole in the wall. This is the door, another hole is the window.

Sometimes, I sit at my desk and look outside. The greyness of the firmament is there, and we both cry. Rain is beautiful.