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A Mountain of Lies MAG
When I was seven years old,
I dropped a pebble on a polished floor.
At age eight,
I dropped two more.
By eleven,
they had formed an anthill.
Harmless enough,
almost blown over by the wind.
By thirteen,
I was knee-deep in a pebble tower.
At age fourteen,
these pebbles could no longer
be deconstructed sweetly;
removing one would crumble the whole structure.
By fifteen years old,
I had a mountain.
The floor I had started on
was only visible in perfect sunlight.
When I was fifteen,
I spent all my energy structuring,
maintaining,
and worrying for this mountain
of mine.
When I was fifteen,
it started to rain.
And when I was fifteen,
a raindrop fell on a pebble.
A pebble that was part of my mountain.
My volcano.
When I was fifteen,
this raindrop knocked my pebble
out of place.
I watched it fall.
Almost in slow motion.
It bumped another pebble
which hit another
another
another
A domino of pebbles clattered
against this polished floor.
I spread my arms
and tried to hold up this mountain
on my own.
There were too may pebbles
and they each felt like boulders.
So when I was fifteen,
my mountain tumbled down.
Years of intricate planning and design
cascading to nothing
before my eyes.
And when I was fifteen, I thought this fall would kill me.
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