Maze Maker. It's like living inside a Riddle
that reshapes itself every time you get close to the answer.
At first you try to solve it. You think if you just pay closer
attention, ask better questions, match the mood, soften your
voice, rephrase the truth, but maybe then the maze will open.
It never does, because it's not meant to.
The maze is the straitjacket that keeps you there, playing
the game. It's like being cast as the role
of Cassandra, the woman made to see what's coming but never to
be believed by the king. The moment something is off.
The cracks in the mask, the tremors beneath the image, the
echo of danger before the walls collapse and the fireballs start
to land. Gruesome in their aim.
Warnings met with suspicion, scrutiny, silence.
Not because the warnings were wrong, but because it wasn't
allowed that you name the truth or see beyond the curtain.
The day's blur in time loses shape inside riddles.
Words get bent and forged into weapons to wield.
Apologies turn into spells that reset the board.
You try to name what's wrong, to find the problem, to understand
the issue, to work towards a solution.
But suddenly you're defending your tone, your timing, your
motives, your heart, your past, and the hypothetical questions
with no answers become ropes and rocks fashioned about you until
you're tipped into the sea, off the dock of your sanity.
Reality becomes fluid, memory becomes negotiable, and
somewhere along the way you stop trusting your face in the
mirror. Merciless mirror maze with
shifting floors and liquid walls pumped full of sleeping gas and
blow darts and poltergeists. Waking up doesn't even feel like
triumph. It feels like an earthquake.
It begins as a flicker, a question, like a static spark.
Is there even an exit? One answer to any of this?
And one day you bring a simple cup of coffee to the maze maker.
Not as a peace offering, not even as a strategy, just because
there was a tiny crack in the noise and truth slipped through
like light under a door. But the maze maker dumped it
out. Not just the coffee, the energy
to try to play the game. And in the quiet sound of
running liquid down a sink drain, the still small voice, it
speaks louder than the booming Thunder of confusion.
The maze maker wants reconciliation.
And like a map materializing out of thin air in your hands,
stepping down that row called reconciliation is actually how
you come back to the lie. Every word is a trap.
Every kindness has twisted, every unsanctioned perspective,
experience, challenge to the maze.
Maker's game is declared rebellious, dishonorable, and
disrespectful. Because to the pure all things
are pure, but to the defiled and unbelieving, nothing is pure,
but their minds and their consciences are defiled.
What is there to do but stop consuming?
Stop breathing in the putrid air of the maze maker's reality.
Stop trying to walk out by measuring your intentions, by
his reactions. And you stop looking for clarity
from someone who is sustained only by confusion.
You start consuming truth that is rooted in stillness, that
breaks like dawn, not lightning, and that comes like a sprout,
tender, trembling, yet determined.
You sit with it and wait with a prayer in your heart that it
takes root and bears fruit. And then one day you realize the
ground beneath you is not moving even when you tremble and the
blow darts became fireflies. The gas is gone as the scent of
lilies in a valley of green carried on a breeze, and the
poltergeist has fled before the face of the uncreated,
unchanging, uncompromising being of truth.
Music. Music.