It did not come alone. The crack made its appearance in an ensemble. Each member was stationed about the house. The first rose from the front widow to the ceiling; its twin mirrored it above the doorway. Others graced other walls. There were some attempts at easing them away. A little putty; a little plaster could fill in the gap. Add just a touch of paint and it’s gone. No, the crack remains, now sandwiching putty, and dressed in semi-gloss.

It could be ignored. No thought will be paid to it. Not a moment of worry will be attributed to it. That is, until its cousins arrive. When it’s comrades-at-arms come in a floor buckle here and a stubborn door there, the crack will have to be addressed.

Naturally, the problem is not with its presence now. The problem lies in its past, back when it was merely stress beneath the widow sill, and farther still to its ancestor: the crack in the cellar wall. On that wall rests the house, and it is there the invasion began. Silently and unnoticed, it beat and bludgeoned, little by little until strength was made weak.

Now it reigns supreme. It has conquered. It has triumphed. It brings its army to the occupied front in a slow and steady march. There is no hope in repair. Creation alone is the solution. New creation. Perfect creation from a flawed, buckled, and warped beginning. Hope is only found in the impossible; a paradox that only has two outcomes: despair or surrender.

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