Part I - Borrowed Bridge. (the experience)

I wrote it last night at 1 a.m., posted before 5a.m., on Facebook, when most of the world was still asleep and the only witness was the cursor blinking like a heartbeat.

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“All the Bridges We Cross”

October 28, 2025

There’s something about bridges that always makes me stop. Each one feels different, yet they all carry the same idea of connection. This bridge, that bridge, every one of them stands between two places, doing its work, holding stories that pass across it every day. Maybe that’s what I love about them. They remind me that even simple structures can hold meaning, and every path we take connects to something more. And in that we find the reason to move forward. Because a bridge is meant to be crossed, not lived on.“

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I posted it like leaving a note on a table for someone who might need it later. By noon, the idea had a new face. Same bones, different skin. Someone took the frame, connection, stories held in simple things, the call to cross, and dressed it in their own colors. This is what thieves of ideas do. They don’t break in with crowbars, they slip through the cracks of your open heart, your shared feed, your unguarded dawn. They see a spark and call it kindling. Hear a truth and rename it their own. I’ve met them before. The ones who lift your pain and package it as insight. Who borrow your survival and sell it as wisdom, and stand in your light, wearing your shadow like a coat. They don’t steal your words. They try to seal your spark. But here’s what they forget: A bridge is not the idea. It’s the crossing. They can copy the blueprint, mimic the arch, even paint it prettier. Doesn’t matter. Let them have the echo. Let them parade the borrowed beam.

As for me, I’m already on the other side.

And the bridge? It still holds my name in every plank, remembers the hour I laid the first one down, and still knows who crossed first.

Because some things can’t be stolen. Only lived.

@Annam M. Gordon