There is a disconnect between my mind and my hand, between impressions and actionable thoughts. I am left wandering, staring rootless at a blank sheet of paper. The broad strokes and indefinable images of synesthesia do not translate into the words they represent. Ideas confined, defined, lose their vitality. It is not my place to complete--let the fragments fall, unaltered. No human hand can mimic the pattern of a shattered glass; no human hand can unify its pieces.
The glass was born broken.
And what can I say? Perhaps that is for the best. Even it dissolves when I touch it. Real, yet not. The veil cannot part, the mists will not break. I regret what is not real; I covet that which did not exist. Unstable as water. Firm as a shadow, and as tenacious. Without review, without peer, judgment is broken.
A child's cup, a clay figurine. The imitation cannot exceed its model, but it can exceed the imitator. And clumsy hands defy even that.
It is shattered glass, smoke in my eyes, and yet to me, it is beautiful.
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What's wrong with post-midnight contemplation?
ReplyDeleteWell, for one thing, I'm supposed to be asleep well in advance of midnight.
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