Sit me infront of this arrangement you call life. And I will take what you give, these little jars of glitter, perfectly organized, every colour placed seperately. I will not admire how beautiful it all looks, because I can't stand perfection. I think for a split-second about it, but this lust to end the inertia that's pulling me behind gets the better of me, and I wreck it.
All it takes is one motion, one blow, and I destroy it.
I look down at my hands, the glitter settling into the creases and folds of the insides of my palms. I try to dust them off, because they're making my already so worn and wrinkly looking hands more evidently imperfect by highlighting the lines, but they're stuck to the sweatiness.
This is my life, the stuck glitter on my hands, and the mess I've created out of it.
