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  • Brian Krebs


My walls are made of an unearthly substance that I cannot see. The material is ethereal and opaque. Their very existence is unfathomable to me. I live in a world that is constrained by the weight of nothing, its gravity impressing upon my every movement. 

I do not feel a wall and yet I know it’s there because I feel its boundaries. I used to convince myself that those invisible guards were not guards at all. They weren’t blocking any movement that I cared to pursue. I chose to stop on my own accord. Perhaps the thing waiting in that direction was not worth the journey. Perhaps there was nothing there at all.

In time, the walls became two-dimensional lines that I did not cross. It wasn’t due to any thought of the thing on the other side anymore. It was because the world was finite. A fact accepted and believed. A law of science and reason; as clear as the wall the horizon makes against the evening sky, blocking from view the thing beyond, obscured behind heavenly drapes.

But like a child slowly waking from thoughtlessness to illumination, I realize that my world is not flat. The walls I perceived were simply horizons on the ocean; light, pale and orange, dancing on an azure body. Then, the glow erupts into a brilliant explosion. It is as if the skies have given the final kiss goodnight. But this sunset never fades nor dies.


Brian Krebs is a Korean American adoptee living in Manhattan. If the way we spend our moments reflects who we are, he is a lover, entrepreneur, poet, reader, sleeper, activist, eater, and traveler. He’s also spent significant time as a student, drop out, inmate, mental health patient, and mental health advocate.

Cover photo credit: Annie Spratt


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