In the din of past frictions, the Red Bricks of this wall had ended up realizing the meaning of their existence: promiscuity, compressed destiny and the first to the front during bad weather.

In total, there were 70 million. 70 million poor Red Bricks, cut and rough by life. We wash them once a year, we pamper them so that they maintain their Red Brick confidence.

Industrially produced, they had nourished the intimate hope of one day erecting themselves as they saw fit, given the energy and investment that was put into producing them.
Today, their only hope is not to end up like the Rubbles at their feet who, every day, are trampled or rolled over.
There are billions of Rubbles. They were blown up with dynamite in a quarry 300 km from here.
That was back then.
Today, it's true, respect and progress have led to an improvement in their production: TNT.

Their only freedom is to move when they are trampled or run over.

The Rubbles would like to be Brick to be closer to what they protect.
The Bricks, on the other hand, would not like to become Rubbles, for they fear of no longer being pampered at least once a year by those they protect.
What they do not want and cannot accept, for fear of becoming Rubbles, is that those they protect, when they argue among themselves, end up fleeing, leaving Bricks and Rubbles at the mercy of the bombs.
The Bricks, less accustomed, will be devastated.
The Rubbles, accustomed to it, will continue to suffer.
When the argument ends, the protégés will return to re-build their rickety castle, bringing back new, freshly stripped bricks and having taken the time to clean everything thoroughly beforehand.

The Rubbles will always be there and some remember with melancholy when they were Bricks.

*February 29, 2024