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Mental World
In mind, I have built a city. It is vast and strange, with towering spires made of words and streets paved with thoughts. Today, I open its gates, wide and welcoming, though I know not all who enter come with open hearts. Some will look upon my world and recoil, for it is not built of the soft illusions they prefer, but of harsh truths sculpted into monuments. Still, I let them in.
I stand at the highest tower, watching as they trickle in. Among them, I see small group, The ones who hates me for thinking differently. They walks through my city, their face twisted in arrogance, unable to comprehend the shape of my reality, Is too confrontational for their smooth, placid world. Yet, they stays. Something holds them here, perhaps the weight of the truth they refuses to acknowledge.
My world reflects everything I’ve ever known. It is a place of shifting skies and constant change, where cultural identity hangs like banners from the rooftops , vivid, proud, and unapologetic. Each banner is stitched with the histories of my people, the struggles we’ve faced, the songs we’ve sung, the battles we’ve fought. But to them , they are mere fabrics, something to admire from afar, never to touch, never to understand. They moves through it untouched, blind to the weight they carry.
I descend from the tower, moving through the streets, where words and ideas spread like mist. The city knows no silence. It speaks, always. And I speak with it, shouting the truth to all who will listen. I tell them of the lies they live in, the shackles they wear but refuse to see. “This is not another story,” I tell them, my voice echoing against the stone walls. “This is the truth, though it may sound strange to you. The world has trained you to believe in its lies, to swallow them whole and smile.”
They glares at me from the crowd, their eyes burning with the anger of someone who has never been confronted with their own complacency. They are furious because my words pierce their armor, not like a sword but like a thousand small needles, sharp and unrelenting. But still, they listens, drawn in by the force of the truth they wishes to ignore.
The demons come next. They always do. They rise from the cracks in the pavement, shadows made of fear and doubt, come around my legs, trying to drag me down. They are the voices of a world that says I should be quiet, that my words are too sharp, too dangerous. I wrestle with them daily, my hands bloodied from the fight, but I never stop. To stop is to let them win, and I refuse.
My hands tremble as I look at them. I wonder if they understands that my fight is not just mine. It’s theirs too. It’s everyone’s. These demons, these shadows, they exist in all of us, though most are too afraid to face them. They see me battling, and for a moment, I catch something in their eyes, a flicker of recognition, of understanding. But it vanishes as quickly as it came, buried under the weight of their hate
I push forward, breaking free from the demons’ grasp, and raise my voice once more. “You hate me because I make you see the world for what it is,” I shout, my voice cracking with emotion. “But this is not just my world. It’s yours, too. We are all trapped in the same city, the same labyrinth of lies. I am not your enemy. Your enemy is the silence you cling to.”
They steps forward, their face unreadable now, the anger replaced by something else. Confusion? Pain? I can’t tell. They opens their mouth as if to speak, but the city shifts around us. The streets tremble, the buildings shudder, and suddenly we are not alone. The shadows of history rise around us, the voices of those who came before, shouting their truths to a world that did not want to hear them.
I reach out to them, but they steps back. “We can’t,” they says, their voices trembling. “It’s too much.”
I watch as they turns away, disappearing into the mist of unspoken thoughts, their silhouettes swallowed by the city’s endless streets. And I realize then that not everyone can face the truth. Some will always choose the comfort of ignorance over the pain of understanding.
But I will not stop. This city is my mind, my truth, and it will stand, even if I am the only one left to walk its streets.
The gates close behind them , but I am not alone. The banners still fly, the words still swirl, and I know that somewhere, someday, someone will hear the truth I speak and be changed by it.
And that is enough.
Because in the end, I am not just fighting for myself. I am fighting for all those who come after me, for all those who will one day step through these gates and see the world as it truly is. And that, I realize, is the message. We must speak our truths, even when the world refuses to listen. Because silence is the only true enemy.
The demons return, but this time, I am ready.
© Luis Mujica
I stand at the highest tower, watching as they trickle in. Among them, I see small group, The ones who hates me for thinking differently. They walks through my city, their face twisted in arrogance, unable to comprehend the shape of my reality, Is too confrontational for their smooth, placid world. Yet, they stays. Something holds them here, perhaps the weight of the truth they refuses to acknowledge.
My world reflects everything I’ve ever known. It is a place of shifting skies and constant change, where cultural identity hangs like banners from the rooftops , vivid, proud, and unapologetic. Each banner is stitched with the histories of my people, the struggles we’ve faced, the songs we’ve sung, the battles we’ve fought. But to them , they are mere fabrics, something to admire from afar, never to touch, never to understand. They moves through it untouched, blind to the weight they carry.
I descend from the tower, moving through the streets, where words and ideas spread like mist. The city knows no silence. It speaks, always. And I speak with it, shouting the truth to all who will listen. I tell them of the lies they live in, the shackles they wear but refuse to see. “This is not another story,” I tell them, my voice echoing against the stone walls. “This is the truth, though it may sound strange to you. The world has trained you to believe in its lies, to swallow them whole and smile.”
They glares at me from the crowd, their eyes burning with the anger of someone who has never been confronted with their own complacency. They are furious because my words pierce their armor, not like a sword but like a thousand small needles, sharp and unrelenting. But still, they listens, drawn in by the force of the truth they wishes to ignore.
The demons come next. They always do. They rise from the cracks in the pavement, shadows made of fear and doubt, come around my legs, trying to drag me down. They are the voices of a world that says I should be quiet, that my words are too sharp, too dangerous. I wrestle with them daily, my hands bloodied from the fight, but I never stop. To stop is to let them win, and I refuse.
My hands tremble as I look at them. I wonder if they understands that my fight is not just mine. It’s theirs too. It’s everyone’s. These demons, these shadows, they exist in all of us, though most are too afraid to face them. They see me battling, and for a moment, I catch something in their eyes, a flicker of recognition, of understanding. But it vanishes as quickly as it came, buried under the weight of their hate
I push forward, breaking free from the demons’ grasp, and raise my voice once more. “You hate me because I make you see the world for what it is,” I shout, my voice cracking with emotion. “But this is not just my world. It’s yours, too. We are all trapped in the same city, the same labyrinth of lies. I am not your enemy. Your enemy is the silence you cling to.”
They steps forward, their face unreadable now, the anger replaced by something else. Confusion? Pain? I can’t tell. They opens their mouth as if to speak, but the city shifts around us. The streets tremble, the buildings shudder, and suddenly we are not alone. The shadows of history rise around us, the voices of those who came before, shouting their truths to a world that did not want to hear them.
I reach out to them, but they steps back. “We can’t,” they says, their voices trembling. “It’s too much.”
I watch as they turns away, disappearing into the mist of unspoken thoughts, their silhouettes swallowed by the city’s endless streets. And I realize then that not everyone can face the truth. Some will always choose the comfort of ignorance over the pain of understanding.
But I will not stop. This city is my mind, my truth, and it will stand, even if I am the only one left to walk its streets.
The gates close behind them , but I am not alone. The banners still fly, the words still swirl, and I know that somewhere, someday, someone will hear the truth I speak and be changed by it.
And that is enough.
Because in the end, I am not just fighting for myself. I am fighting for all those who come after me, for all those who will one day step through these gates and see the world as it truly is. And that, I realize, is the message. We must speak our truths, even when the world refuses to listen. Because silence is the only true enemy.
The demons return, but this time, I am ready.
© Luis Mujica
