I stood by the ocean once,
back against a cold wall,
and for a second
I couldn’t tell which one I was.
The ocean kept throwing itself forward.
Loud. Messy. Unashamed.
Like it didn’t care how many times
it had to break to be heard.
The wall just stood there.
Quiet.
Taking hit after hit
like it signed up for it.
I used to think I was the ocean.
All emotion.
All reaction.
Crashing into everything
that didn’t understand me.
But some nights
I feel more like the wall.
Still on the outside.
Hollow on the inside.
Smiling like nothing is chipping away.
Water is patient.
It doesn’t argue.
It doesn’t need the last word.
It just comes back.
That’s what thoughts do.
That’s what regret does.
They don’t scream.
They return.
Little by little
they carve something out of you
until you knock on your own chest
and it sounds different.
Empty in places.
Echoing.
The crazy part is
the wall never notices the moment
it starts becoming hollow.
It happens slowly.
Quietly.
Between impacts.
But here’s what the ocean taught me.
Hollow doesn’t mean useless.
It doesn’t mean weak.
Sometimes it just means
you survived enough pressure
to change shape.
The ocean never quits.
The wall never runs.
And somewhere between crashing and standing
you learn how to bend
without breaking.
I don’t know if I’m the ocean
or the wall anymore.
Maybe I’m both.
Maybe we all are.
But I know this.
Even hollow things
still stand.
— Itz_All_True
Mar 3
Mar 3, 2026 at 9:23 AM UTC
I stood by the ocean once,
back against a cold wall,
and for a second
I couldn’t tell which one I was.
The ocean kept throwing itself forward.
Loud. Messy. Unashamed.
Like it didn’t care how many times
it had to break to be heard.
The wall just stood there.
Quiet.
Taking hit after hit
like it signed up for it.
I used to think I was the ocean.
All emotion.
All reaction.
Crashing into everything
that didn’t understand me.
But some nights
I feel more like the wall.
Still on the outside.
Hollow on the inside.
Smiling like nothing is chipping away.
Water is patient.
It doesn’t argue.
It doesn’t need the last word.
It just comes back.
That’s what thoughts do.
That’s what regret does.
They don’t scream.
They return.
Little by little
they carve something out of you
until you knock on your own chest
and it sounds different.
Empty in places.
Echoing.
The crazy part is
the wall never notices the moment
it starts becoming hollow.
It happens slowly.
Quietly.
Between impacts.
But here’s what the ocean taught me.
Hollow doesn’t mean useless.
It doesn’t mean weak.
Sometimes it just means
you survived enough pressure
to change shape.
The ocean never quits.
The wall never runs.
And somewhere between crashing and standing
you learn how to bend
without breaking.
I don’t know if I’m the ocean
or the wall anymore.
Maybe I’m both.
Maybe we all are.
But I know this.
Even hollow things
still stand.
— Itz_All_True
