photo by https://unsplash.com/photos/a-wooden-fence-with-weeds-growing-around-it-OgAf3NpckHs
There’s an old fence behind the field where I used to play as a kid.
It’s broken in places, rust creeping over the wires like time over memory.
When we were small, we used to jump over it — laughing, daring each other to cross.
Back then, it was just a line between two patches of grass.
Now, I see it differently.
Fences grow in many forms.
Some are built to protect, some to divide,
and some to remind us of the moments we refused to forgive.
The fence of offence isn’t made of wood or metal.
It’s made of pride, of words spoken in anger,
of the silence that came after.
We think we’re keeping others out,
but in truth — we’re locking ourselves in.
Maybe one day I’ll go back to that field,
find the courage to break what’s left of that fence,
and finally cross over — not to them, but to myself.
Because peace doesn’t live behind walls.
It waits patiently, on the other side.