Thinking About Random Stuff

Labeled

Glass jars on my shelves, each delicately and caringly labeled. Some hold secrets, some hold truths, some hold ideas and others I do not know.

Little stickers line my world, each person has their own. 'A stranger', 'A friend', 'A person that I will never see again'. Some are unique, others not so much.

I don't speak for the labels, but they seem to affect me. Every word that comes from my mouth is always analyzed carefully. Will I offend is I say what I wish to say? Will I be in the wrong if I talk about a topic this way?

I find no use for labels, but they've been with me since I was born; a person who was a _____, that's all that I was told. It was left to my interpretation, but others might be scarred, when all of the labels start being stamped onto their hearts. Maybe the people don't mean it when they say those words because they cannot see the labels' binding and just how much it hurts.

I label as well, I commit those sins. I say cruel jokes and jabs at those with it. I know I've wounded many, with my bitter and evil lies, but these labels all come crashing, and I can't take them back.

What labels you? What color must your soul be? What category must you fit in? What is the gender, the sexuality, the religion that makes you? If you have a mental illness, are you that? If I told you the truth, would you believe that I'm a psychopath?

Those words are tossed easily, for I have never cared, but those who are the victims will not be so pleased because I will never understand the horrors they have seen. These labels have bound them, these labels have left wounds. These labels could have killed them if they were born in the wrong place or too soon.

But for some reason, as I glance up at those jars, I feel some sort of sorrow when looking at the labels that mark them. Those little slips of paper, printed in a 'perfect' font, all lined up in rows, each and every one. The things they contain, are pretty, pretty things. Like a child's nostalgia and looking for their parents' rings. Like a girl who doesn't know if she's a girl or boy because she can never understand how those labels can be changed. Her family didn't think so, and now she's stuck the same.

And then, there are some labels that are rewritten in a colorful pen. My loopy, scribbly handwriting marks one label that I have chosen. And maybe one day, more color will dot these shelves, when labels become art and art becomes myself.

A/N I don't even know what I'm writing anymore. Help me, I don't know what's the difference between rosemary and thyme. I can't cook.