A Prose With No Direction

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Glass.

Sharp.

Honest. 

Dangerous.

A woman stands before me, a woman unlike any I have ever seen, yet a woman I know by heart. Her appearance is like a mosaic, every inch of her body, her eyes, her skin, her hair, and her body are all different colors—some that compliment one another while others contradicting.

This woman is a mosaic. 

She is made of different shards of glass, some may be scraps too worthless to be with a grander piece of art yet too valuable to be put to waste. That is the kind of woman that stands before me.

Too worthless to be called great yet too valuable to be called useless. 

Orange and yellow paint her eyes.

Red and pink paint her lips.

Blue, green, and purple paint her body.

Every inch of her body is made with different colors, some complimenting one another while others contradicting.

These colors represent who we are.

The woman's orange and yellow eyes represent ambition and hope.

The woman's red and pink lips represent content and honesty.

The woman's blue, green, and purple body represent the coldness, the envy, and the darkness she feels.

Every inch of her body is made with different colors... 

Why is it that the woman's eyes are so ambitious yet her ambition is drowned by the coldness her body feels?

...Some complimenting while others contradicting.

Why is it that the woman's lips are so content yet it is unsatisfied by the envy her body feels?

...Some complimenting while others contradicting.

Why is it that the woman's eyes as so hopeful yet her entirety longs to linger in the dark?

...Some complimenting while others contradicting.

Why is that?

Complimenting and contradicting.

Why do we have things that compliment and contradict? What is the point? Shouldn't it just all compliment with one another so conflict could be avoided?

Or is our contradictions essential in order to keep diversity, variety, and balance?

Is that the explanation to the complimenting and contradicting of the colors that make us?

Is that why?

I wonder... 

.

.

.

.

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Orange and yellow paint her eyes.

Red and pink paint her lips.

Blue, green, and purple paint her body.

A woman stands before me, a woman unlike any I have ever seen, yet a woman I know by heart. 

The woman is made of glass.

The woman is made of scraps.

The woman is a tragical mosaic.

And that woman, is me...