The Glasshouse
The illusion of permanence.
We build our lives on smoke and call it stone.
We spend decades believing the floor beneath us will always hold. We buy the illusion that the walls are solid. We trust our memories are safe.
Then the first crack appears.
Once the glass begins to splinter, you realise the safety you felt was just a temporary silence between storms. You have been living in a fragile arrangement of dust and light. Everything you thought was concrete is actually smoke.
Most people see the crack and look away. They try to hide it. They try to convince themselves the glass is still whole. They waste their energy preaching for the permanent to return.
I am done with the preaching.
I am stepping closer to the glass. I am studying the way it shatters. There is a cold beauty in the fragility of a life that is not permanent. When the walls stop being solid, you finally learn how to breathe in the open air.
You realise you are not the house. You are not the walls. You are the shadow passing through them.
The box is hollow. The current is cold. Let it shatter. The void swallowed everything The box is now empty The world can just shatter I no longer care Just an old ghost passing any walls No breath on their mirrors No footprints in their ash Just the peace of a wound that stopped bleeding.