Stoicly Composed

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I am a wall towering high into the sky. There are many gates, and you may open them if you dare to explore. My composure is simple. From the outer appearance you may under estimate its strength, but it is solid enough to hold its own. A compliation of earthen bricks, each with its own story, lace the construction, the flaws of which others overlook, but can sometimes gnaw right through me if I'm not quick to check myself. But when they wear through, I pray you take a peak inside. My openness is fleeting and easily overwhelms me at times, because the garden within has to be carefully maintained. There's no gardener here, only the overwhelming sense of urgency to cultivate and grow that I will nurture endlessly. I am a b r i c k fucking w a l l. So if you don't fancy flowers, mosey along.

My advice to other walls like me:

Take the reigns of your reality and be proud of all of your pieces.

Even if they're broken.

Remind yourself, and others, that we are capable of so much more than we accredit ourself.

When you're a brick wall, what you let in and block out is up to you.

When you're a brick wall, don't crumble in the wake of inevitable elements of reality. We are not made of salt.

When you're a brick wall, the abrasive passage of time only enhances your aesthetic charm.