essay #0 // the weight of living

You’re standing on the edge of something Real and a lie. The Real is a boulder; immovable, jagged, an immense weight pressing down on the dirt below. It has substance. It holds truth. It’s not the prettiest thing to look at, but it’s undeniable. The Real commands the attention of it’s environment. It would unwise to pretend it wasn’t there.

The lie, on the other hand. At first, it was just a thorn. It got stuck to your shirt as you walked along the high road. Then it grew and it got scary. It put down roots, and the single thorn was joined by a whole stem of brothers. From that lethal stem bloomed a rose, which you took one look at and decided the thorns weren’t so scary anymore. Because how could fear accompany something this effortless? But then the rose began to bleed, and so did you. And now that rose is a prison of barbed wire, and there is no honesty or pleasure in inescapable pain.

You must decide which weight to bear. Real holds authenticity, and that vulnerability will eventually make you strong, even though you want to scream on hour three. Lies are a trap. But your skin will grow thicker with time. Soon you will become unbothered by the prickling of your entrapment. Which weight has more of a lasting impact? How do you want your insides to feel? How do they feel now.