Sitting on the edge of a fountain. In a courtyard in a nondescript building. The Nike statue in my vicinity. Bushes of green. The smell of roses. The soft and rhythmic splashes of water. Calm. The feel of the cold marble under me. The absence of voices.
I look at my calves. How they’ve grown, I surmise. I look at my hands. How they’ve callused. I focus on my breaths, long and slow exhalations of exhaustion.
I walk over to the window, open the vertical shutters and peak out onto the rolling hills of grass, dots of trees and plants, silhouettes of human beings somewhere far away, the sun drenching Earth in a heavy golden hue.
I touch the brick to the left of the window. I remember laying this brick down, this one no different from all of the others. One by one, year after year, crafted with my proprietary elixir of clay and tears. I’ve been laying bricks as long as I can recall.
Somehow, someday, on a day no different from the others, a collection of bricks, mixed together with the memories of violence and chaos, turned into a palace of peace.
And yet, the absence of voices.