When your head is made of bricks
When your head is made of bricks, it's hard to think. When the bricks your head is made of are arranged into perfect walls holding back everything you are, it's hard to function. When the bricks are chinked with every insecurity you've entertained, it's hard to dissolve. And when you stand there, looking over the wall, at what you used to have access to, sometimes it's hard to keep it together. But the hardest part, harder than the sun baked brick, and the air dried mortar, is that you were the one who built the one. The questions you used to ask, the curiosity that used to brighten your mind, the work and thought you had to give out, all of that, you shoved back there. Back into that corner, slowly slowly building it up, then roping it off. Roping it off, then putting up a fence, then, finally, putting up the brick wall, layer by layer. But why did I do this? Why have I made it so I can't? So I can't learn the math I used to find so interesting?...
