Once, someone whispered a definition of Hell into my soul:
“On your last day on Earth, the person you could have been…
meets the person you chose to become.”
And since then,
you water it.
Day by day.
Little by little.
Your Orchard.
With every habit you excuse,
with every vice you entertain,
with every time you knew better and still didn’t act—
you water it.
So now,
close your eyes.
No more distractions.
No more denial.
And ask yourself—
with presence, not excuses:
“What am I doing every day that I KNOW is destroying me slowly?”
The answer doesn’t hide.
It never did.
You always knew.
Maybe it’s the food.
Maybe it’s the screen you glue yourself to before sleep.
Maybe it’s that person.
That anger.
That numbness you wear like a second skin.
But the moment you asked—
you knew.
So the question isn’t clarity.
It’s cowardice.
Because clarity you’ve had for years.
But do you change?
No.
You keep watering
Your Noxious Orchard of Vice.
You even pretend it’s a garden.
You decorate it.
You justify it with tired logic.
And the days pass.
The months blur.
And suddenly—it’s 2025.
What happened to the promise you made last year?
To the gym?
The course?
The book?
The version of you that you swore you'd finally become?
How much did you water
the Orchard of Habit?
The Orchard of Vice?
It grew.
It wrapped itself around your ankles.
It thickened its roots in your chest.
The rope is tightening.
And this time…
you feel it.
But do you stop?
No.
You keep scrolling.
Keep numbing.
Keep betraying yourself one quiet day at a time.
And the years go by.
And each day, taller, more twisted—
your Noxious Orchard.
Until one day
you can’t breathe.
And no one can save you.
Because the gardener was always you.
You are 80.
And for 80 years—
you watered it.
You fed it your mornings.
You buried your potential beneath its shade.
And now?
You are bitter.
You grumble.
You rage at life.
But how can you not rage
when there’s a rope around your throat
and you tied it yourself?
It’s your last day.
And as your breath shortens,
you see someone approaching.
And they look…
just like you.
But they’re not.
They’re lighter.
They stand with grace.
They walk like they’ve danced through fire and come out free.
You hate them.
And then you realize—
It is you.
The you who stopped watering the poison.
The you who chose differently.
The you who never came to be.
And with a tear of truth too late—
you leave this world.
Or maybe…
Maybe you don’t wait that long.
Maybe today is the drought.
Maybe today, you stop feeding the lie.
You stop saying “it’s not that bad.”
You stop saying “tomorrow.”
You stop saying “just one more time.”
And instead—
you stop watering.
You feel the discomfort.
You feel the withdrawals.
You feel the pull of old roots.
And you let them die.
You lift the watering can,
and you put it down.
And slowly—
your Noxious Orchard of Vice
begins to wither.
And in the clearing?
A different tree.
One that feeds you.
One that frees you.
One that remembers who you were always meant to be.
—BV
The Monoliths are one-of-one, eternal creations—each forged as a testament to uniqueness. Printed on the finest materials known to the art world and framed in custom, museum-grade designs tailored to the collector’s wall and space, they are not shipped—they are delivered. Personally. By Benjamin Viulet. Wherever you are in the world.
