amitabha

Something that goes through your mind every time you think about that day when that thing happened and your life changed was the fact that it was all slipping through your hands and there was nothing you could do about it. You watched it flow through your fingers like marbles on glass, trying to grab it and prove that you can make an effort when you know in the back of your mind that you're not putting your heart into it. And as the marbles shatter on the floor and you try to gather the shards and put them in a neat little pile, you don't even notice the cuts and the blood that you're streaking on the floor in large circular patterns that mimic your now predictable thought patterns. You concentrate too much on the blood, running out of your hands in a grand display as it distracts you from the shard that's burying it's self inside your skin. Your body molds around the foreign objects in the way that wet clay is swooned by the sculptors hands, wet and caressing, and warm as it shapes you and changes you,.. and you accept it, putting forth less and less resistance until you've become a cold and dry shell. And now, you have nowhere to look but forward, you are the pitcher of clay that holds the water that we all drink. You taint the water with your history, you flavor the water with your smell, and everyone wonders why they feel so differently after even one sip. And as you are placed onto the shelf for another day, and the dust collects on your brow, as the last bit of water dries on your lips you wonder if you're filtering your gift to the world from yourself or everyone else. Was it the reason to begin in the first place, or the reason to end things that got you interested? You can't remember the details anymore, and in your confusion you slip from the shelf where you've been ever so carefully placed. Falling past your friends, past your days before the spring when the flowers were blooming just right under your hands, past the balls of wet clay ready to take your place. You shatter as you hit the floor, spreading across the room the way dandelion seeds float over a field in a strong wind, and I'm left to pick up the pieces. But I'm already cut.


This message brought to you by random unrestricted thought.