Here the bricks are not masonry, but years.
Ordered memories, fears, habits that a person gathers carefully, almost tenderly, until one day they remain alone on the inner side.
The hands—rough, wounded, impatient—break through the opening not to destroy, but to touch. To reach that small living thing outside.
The rose is fragile, yet real.
It does not scream. It does not insist. It simply grows—
the way Pink Floyd’s music grows quietly in the mind and then finds you unprepared.
The wall is not an enemy.
It was built for a reason.
But every wall, sooner or later, begins to let in light—
through a crack, through a gap, through a single gesture.
This is not a scene of escape.
This is the moment before the decision.
And as in old music, and as in old truths—
it is not the outer world that saves a person,
but what they can still recognize as alive.
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Here the bricks are not masonry, but years.
Ordered memories, fears, habits that a person gathers carefully, almost tenderly, until one day they remain alone on the inner side.
The hands—rough, wounded, impatient—break through the opening not to destroy, but to touch. To reach that small living thing outside.
The rose is fragile, yet real.
It does not scream. It does not insist. It simply grows— the way Pink Floyd’s music grows quietly in the mind and then finds you unprepared.
The wall is not an enemy.
It was built for a reason.
But every wall, sooner or later, begins to let in light— through a crack, through a gap, through a single gesture.
This is not a scene of escape.
This is the moment before the decision.
And as in old music, and as in old truths— it is not the outer world that saves a person, but what they can still recognize as alive.
Lia