We are fire. We are ice. The wind the rain, lava and snow and everything in between. Our lives have been behind the looking glass for so many dead hours. Its simple. Its simply hard to carve through that reflective mirror that has trampled through our paths. Our grass is dead. Our homes are burned. Our incoherent thoughts are bleeding into our retinas yet each second we try to hide, more and more of this fear, this....emotion, blurs our vision. We've found ourselves wilted. Flowers, empty of their petals and missing a few leaves. Are we broken? No. Our stems are tall, straight and a vibrant green. But our decorations have fallen to the floor.
We see death daily. In the stale air, on the road, in the browning of our yards and in the lone feathers falling from the sky. Each time it becomes more real to us. More, tangible. Like you can touch it without fear of it's lanky appendages bruising your skin. Or coating your muscles with disease. We survive knowing that it's there. Knowing that some day, that man that harmed your child will be gone.That the nurse overdosing her patients will fade....and that the two pint bully at school won't last past 95. When it happens, we cry. We scream, we run and pretend that it was never there. That it was never coming. That death, when it shows it self, has not been slinking around this whole time. We will never know how to deal with it. We will never know the right words to say, or who we should be comforting. We will feel exposed. We'll feel betrayed and lost. The only bright side is that we know for a fact, where they went; and when we are finally calm enough to think straight, we go back to thinking of death as an intangible source.
Our hearts can only take so much. They aren't machines. No one can unscrew our rib cages and replace the batteries. Taking us apart and reassembling us won't do the trick. How do you handle a fragile package? You don't. You leave it alone until it's unwrapped, then put it somewhere safe so it won't become damaged; and when you're ready to take it out again, you dust it off and handle it with care.We are not glass. We are ceramic. We can be glued back together. Finding the pieces may be hard, but it is worth it when we return to normal.
I'm not asking you to forget. Nor do I want your trembling heart to cease it's beat. I want you to become the shallow water leading to the ocean. Let the boat slide smoothly from the shore, then gently rock it out to sea; and when it passes through the storm...allow it to return in one piece. To say nothing of the scratches in its armor.
Poisyn
