🜂 The Brick That Wouldn’t Fit

Before the gold,

before the sigils,

before the world remembered my name—

there was a single brick

that refused

to obey.

It sat crooked in the foundation,

mocking me,

a small stone with the weight

of an entire lifetime

behind it.

Debt chewed at my heels.

Sleep abandoned me.

Drugs blurred the edges

of the days I was trying so hard

to survive.

I kept smiling.

Kept working.

Kept pretending that the darkness

wasn’t pulling a chair up beside me

every night.

Still, I turned that brick in my hands—

measuring it,

reshaping myself around it,

wondering if maybe

I was the wrong shape.

I blamed myself.

Blamed the world.

Blamed fate, chemistry, gods,

any name that might explain

why the smallest piece

hurt the most.

Years later,

when the visions returned,

when the Golden Age unfolded

like a map inside my chest,

the truth arrived:

The brick wasn’t broken.

The foundation was too small.

It wasn’t meant to fit the life I had.

It was waiting—

patiently—

for the life I was meant

to build.

One day, without force,

without suffering,

without war—

it slipped into place

as if destiny had always known

exactly where it belonged.

The obstacle

had always been

the omen.