Thursday, February 10, 2011
There is always the beginning. A time without defects, without flaws, synergy. Then something happens, life happens – fair or not. A mirror shattered by the blunt edge of a hammer held by an empty soul touched by sadness and warped from anger. The broken pieces grab hold of my spirit, unable to take back what is captive. Known to be an intimate friend of darkness, my psyche surrenders to a chaotic, near death experience comparable to being held in a wooden box nailed shut, suffocating, inescapable. The tragedy of a broken life seeking out a new place to reside, but is unable to avoid the perils along the wayside.
The broken pieces project outward like a migraine-provoking 3D movie, slicing through the moral degradation, bleeding it out, like a drug addict overdosing - feeding an addiction, unaware of how good life can be if given 5 minutes to feel sobriety. Gaining the pounds of sanity, shedding the pounds of insanity, and starving the relentless edge to get even. The light is dimming, the room is collapsing, and the memories are fading - no wait I am the one changing, growing, distancing.
Peace would be like a song, written for me, playing softly, filling my ears, soothing my inner skin. Comforting. It is a nice reprieve from the thought that beneath my skin, my bones are covered by a cheap, dirty carpet that has met years of use. The carpet rubs the inside of my body raw. Offering no harmony, afraid that at any moment it will put a tear in my skin, enabling my insides to splatter on the floor. Swoosh. I collapse, tumbling into the hell that I can’t seem to shake to death. The nightmare exists not only in my mind, but also in my inability to resist giving it what “It” needs to remain alive.
Glue. Glue is the answer to putting the mirror back together – the image will always remain distorted but it can be whole again. But what about the pieces that are too small to see, lost, wedged into the fibers of the carpet. I exhale, loudly. Accepting there are many kinds of mirrors, some never see an image, some are made distorted, some are shattered and remain that way, some get defected along the way, while others get broken but yet go on to become a reflection of hope and change. Like a body that can do without some organs, a mirror - my mirror - can do without some of its pieces. It is my life.
I hear my song playing, I must pause it, no time to rest now; there will be plenty of that once I am truly, really, dead.