Observations On Perception

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They had been there long enough that no one marked the beginning.

Paths crossed the land without boundary.  Some were used often, others only when needed.  No one asked who had first walked them.  It was enough that they could be followed.

One morning, men arrived with papers.

They did not move through the paths.  They stopped at certain points, unfolded documents, and read from them.  The words were repeated more than once, as if their repetition secured something not yet established.

A line was drawn.

It did not follow the paths.  It cut across them.  Those who had walked freely now paused before crossing.  Some stepped over it.  Others waited.  No one could say what would follow.

The men with the papers returned the next day.

They asked for names.  They wrote them down.  Some names were accepted without question.  Others were repeated back differently, then recorded again.  No one explained why.

A man who had crossed the line the day before was stopped.

He was told to return.  He pointed to the path he had always used.  The man with the paper looked at it, then at the line, and said nothing.  After a moment, he gestured for him to step back.

The next day, another man crossed at the same place and was not stopped.

No one asked what had changed.

The line remained.

People adjusted their movements around it.  Some avoided it.  Others crossed only when watched.  The paths did not disappear, but they were no longer followed in the same way.

The men with the papers continued to come and go.

Each time, they read the same words.

No one asked who had written them.

 

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Ricardo F. Morín, April 19, 2026, in a quiet waiting room.

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