reading room
The Unseen Wall
They say: This is how it is. And the wall builds itself— not of brick, but of words left unchallenged. A truth spoken once, echoed until it hardens.
No face commands it, yet every silence obeys. No hands laid the mortar, yet still I feel its weight.
At first, it seemed harmless— a sacred rhythm, a polished rule, a story wrapped in gold. But one day, something slipped— a crack, a contradiction, a name we weren't allowed to say.
Why? The smallest word— soft as breath— is met with steel. Do not ask. You already know. You must already know.
But I do not. Not really. I only know the hush that falls when doubt enters the room. Eyes lower. Words stall. And truth holds its breath.
I touched the wall once— no stone, no edge, only declarations stacked on silence. Each rule sealed with fear, each command fused by shame.
Still, I felt beyond it— a warmth, a shimmer, the wild scent of unscripted thought. I reached— but reverence held the leash.
They call this peace: to kneel in rows drawn by vanish lands, to trade wonder for obedience, to wear certainty like armour and call it faith
But what is peace, if it costs the truth? What is order, if it crushes the question?
There is danger, not in chaos, but in answers too holy to touch. The unseen wall does not crumble with time— It thickens with silence. And those who sit too long in its shadow forget the sky was ever blue.
Yet still— somewhere beneath that sacred hush the question glows, faint as embers, waiting for breath, for voice, to burn through the unseen wall.
— Lilith