From our earliest years We see ourselves, We watch and note. We have layered up our opinions, Like bricks and mortar; Crooked and cranky, The walls they creak. These walls are built on no foundation - Sprawling up from groundlessness. Yet we cling as if to a mother: The only source of our vitality. Marvelling at our creation, Drooling at our displeasure, Worshipping the bitterness. Pushing the wall with my pinkie, One brick gives. And glancing through the parallelogram: A sea of scintillating light. You are not what you think you are, Not even close, Open your eyes, And let go. You are falling, But there is no floor
Ben Rudden grew up in the countryside of Cavan, Ireland. He is currently studying psychology in DCU and his passions include philosophy, poetry, Gaelic football, traditional Irish music and theology. He has recently finished an anthology as a gift for his friend.