“Built different. Bricked different.”
Once upon a time, there was a boy.
Innocent. Bright-eyed. Dream-juiced.
He believed in miracles, mixtapes, and self-funded greatness.
He had a good life. Simple. Uncomplicated.
He smiled easily. Spoke to clouds. Dreamed big.
And that?
That’s what made them nervous.
See, he never gave up.
Not on himself.
Not on his vision.
Not even when he had every reason to.
And some people hate that.
They can’t handle a man with conviction.
A man with drive.
A man who walks around with dreams so big,
you'd swear he was hiding something under the table.
And oh…
he was.
The Bricking Begins
First, came the snide remarks:
“You’re too sensitive.”
“You’ll never make it.”
“You still chasing that fantasy?”
Each word, a metaphorical brick.
They hurled them freely,
from social media subtweets,
to fake concern disguised as feedback.
Soon, the whole town was in on it.
They thought:
“We’ll hit him with a good one. Right in the chest.
Knock the wind—and the pride—out of him.”
But they didn’t know.
This boy?
He was actually a man.
And not just any man.
He knew people need dramatic examples to shake them out of apathy,
but he couldn't do that as a man,
not as flesh and blood,
he could be ignored,
he could be destroyed;
but as a symbol... as a symbol he could be incorruptible,
he could be everlasting.
Incorruptible.
Unshakeable.
Semi-permanently erect with purpose.
They launched the first brick.
He had three choices:
- A. Let it hit him
- B. Step out of the way
- C. Catch it in his mouth like a divine protein bar
He chose Option C.
Day 1:
They threw bricks.
Some big, some sharp.
Insults, betrayals, overdraft fees, rent increases, rejection emails that opened with “unfortunately…”
Day 2:
He caught each brick in his mouth.
Chewed it.
Moaned softly with each brick.
Swallowed.
Made eye contact with the throwers.
Whispered:
“Thank you. Can I have some more please? Still Hungry.”
Day 3:
He digested it.
Sure, there was acid reflux.
Existential gas.
The kind of philosophical bloat that comes from realizing your life might be a punchline in someone else's group chat.
But the man?
He was getting harder to ignore.
Harder to hurt.
Harder in general.
Let’s just say…
he was getting
bricked.
All.
The way.
Up.
Day 4:
He shit out a blueprint.
It wasn’t pretty.
But it was visionary. Came with floor plans, structural integrity, and a motivational quote in cursive that said:
“You tried to break me. But all you did was build me up… baby.”
Day 5:
He built the throne.
Stacked high with failed job interviews, ex situationships, and backhanded compliments.
A brick for every “you’ve changed.”
A brick for every ghost.
Day 6:
He sat on it.
Back straight.
Hoodie on.
Aura stiff.
Eyes saying:
“I may not have money yet,
but I’ve got emotional...girth.”
He sipped chamomile out of a chipped mug labeled “never forget.”
You could see it:
The posture.
The presence.
The sheer spiritual rigidity.
He wasn’t just standing tall.
He was
standing strong.
Day 7:
He rested.
Opened his window.
Felt the wind between on his...cheeks.
Smirked.
And whispered into the morning air:
“Throw another one.
And that, my friends…
is how the boy got
Bricked. Up.
Not embarrassed.
Not ashamed.
Just spiritually…
structurally…
unapologetically…
HARD.
"Stay Hard" - David Goggin's