The wall blocks my path; it stands higher than I could climb and is wider than what is possible to go around. A sinking feeling envelopes me, a desperation comes over me as the need to forward is great but that wall still stands before me. It does not care about me; it does not worry about anything that I need to do beyond it but it will not move or allow passage of my person.
The sun shines brightly overhead, warming the earth and the grass beneath my feet but does not warm the cold wall. The hand cut granite, that hand laid granite, stacked neatly, high to the sky by crafted artisans yields not to man not to the suns warmth.
A breeze blows across the field, whispering through the grass the secrets of its life but the grass turns away not hearing the lies of that untrustworthy breeze; the grass clings to the truth of its life. The wall is set upon that truth but does not hold as fast to it as the grass does.
