It's the sound of someone who has already been broken and glued back into one. Instead of sticking together, the only option is falling back apart. The only knowledge is that nobody wants a broken item. Nobody wants anything broken, not even to take a second glance at its words and much less its feelings.
To feel as if you don't know yourself, to feel you never will again if you ever had before. It's to hear the sounds of wailing winds pulling branches back and forth till they break. It's to see the shattering of statues, once seeming unbreakable into oblivion. It's to smell burning wood in a fireplace and never being able to personify how much pain is released in such slow bleeding.
And no one could start to imagine the confliction. You can barely understand yourself, why would you? You don't have the arm to put yourself back together, much less gather the pieces you left so far away. You need help, how to get it out there, you want to scream. You want to boil up emotions, you want to release, you want to find the exit.
But how could you, we, us ever get it out there? It feels far too late but so close; a blind creature knowing none of its surroundings. This creature of blindness can't get help when the people around it back away from the sight. The realization, the disgust, the fear in the unknown and unrelated. It is almost as if we also have the face of gold and once that gold shows to only be on the surface; once it is scraped away from you, taken like diamonds from a mine, taken from the known, then everyone leaves. The leave, not just because the values have been taken, but because what's underneath is inadequate.
These people see it eventually, someway and in some year, only to find it too much to bear upon themselves. To feel as if these pieces are too sharp and jagged to pick up. That is a burden, known only as unwanted. Never to be understood because no piece is the same.
No matter, there is hope. In time, these pieces will still be there and someone new will see them. Not only will they put it together from curiosity but for care. Making the broken mess; the blind creature, the ugly or rotten, the beaten and disordered, something more.
At least...
That's what we hope.
YOU ARE READING
I'm so tired
AcakI own the cover, this is just a book. A readable book, a book for thoughts, poems, or writer blocks. I am glad to share with you, please do not fear, you can share too. I'll be happy as can be but honest in our reality. Feel free to check, to read...
