Illusion — Image by kenne
Invented Frames
We live inside the scaffolds we’ve drawn—
lines of thought mistaken for walls,
for safety, for truth.
Every morning, we reassemble them:
beliefs, titles,
the quiet architecture of purpose.
We speak as if the frameworks were air,
as if their edges weren’t of our own making—
words pressed into meaning,
meaning pressed into habit.
But look closely:
the seams glow faintly,
the way a photograph
burns at its borders—
revealing not nothing,
but the hand that held the match.
To see that,
to accept the illusion and still go on—
that is the closest thing
to being.
— kenne
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