Thin skin

Life's secrets

If you had only one word to describe your life which would you choose? For something as mysterious as our lives comes to be of so many different things, it's hard to detail it so little. Do we brand life as the memories tender and sore? The days bringing us to our knees and the nights swallowing our hearts? Or maybe humanity will remember life as if it were a dream our hands only got to touch once. Still, I wonder, how do you define a string of time so simply?

Our lives may be raw, frayed and vulnerable, your pain may have costed you your innocence, and sorrow may have consumed your heart, but this life is far greater than the price we may have paid. Open your eyes to your mind and you might just see how beautiful the ugly can become if given the soil.

To be human is a challenge. The only way to become your greatest victory is to first understand you are your greatest obstacle. We are the teachers. The lessons and the losses. We are the worlds sounds, it's new smells and tastes discovered. We are the colours stuck to our fingers as we paint this portrait we call home. Humanity is a gift. Life is a chance to experience everything our skin has time to touch. In the end, it is you that designs your home.

If I had only one word, I'd describe life as if it were a secret.
~

The darkness I had first met. She was heavy.

Though, she'd only be a ball and chain chosen by an ankle so pitifully directionless.
~

I'm falling. All of my flesh, the corrupted humanity beneath it, my spent will, everything is so tight and heavy as my limbs plummet through a void yielding to catch me. I don't know however; if my tired body wants open palms behind it's crashing spine. This feeling of giving everything I had ever touched, loved, or mourned to whistling air unburdens my human hands. It hurts, but their noise penetrates. As I fall I won't make a sound, there'll be no more pain, and reality will stop it's spinning just barely before my eyes hit the ground. I'll effortlessly slip through the numb fingers of silence, then become the lifeless thing locked out from myself. There I'll be set free. For it is my mouth and mind that cause me the most degrading, damaging of judgments.

It seems even the hard exterior of the courageous is made of glass. So fragile and transparent. We are vulnerable people trusting in our undoubted strengths until what made us formidable collapses like a vase to cold, blunt tile. Everything we thought we were spilt like parched roots thrown and dispersed in paralyzing puddles reflecting the truth. As we stare back at the broken we'd see we've always been afraid of ourselves.
Scared of who or what we could turn into if, in our black eyes, we saw no one of worth laying in the fractured pieces.

There, behind what has begun to peel and tear itself apart, one acidic conviction preaches,

"I'm not enough."

And as that somber voice bites at our earlobes, all the broken has left is to believe it, then we fall far from everything we ever wanted to be.

We are, without a doubt, fragile. That is our curse just as it is the potential to be our savour.

In the repose of my scattered, humiliated, betrayed emotions, strength becomes a poison. It is something I don't have. A price I've gone into debt with. My humility, my courage, my passion shattered like glass and each piece a distanced memory of who used to decorate the shelf. Humanity is a pain no man could predict nor find the cause for. If the man did speak, if he had my answers, then I'd ask, what would it cost to live in a world so imaginary? One that never stopped playing pretend? Though, I have to say I already know the answer.