Picking Up the Pieces of a Broken Glass

One minute I poured myself a nice glass of fine red then I broke it the next. Sometimes I wonder how could I break something I've just gotten? How could I break something that could have been beautiful? I'm too late here. I crawled on all fours and swam in purple puke. I wished for the giant talking plant to take me to another dimension as I am being deeply cleansed. Same scenario different floor. Different time in space. I know I will still get up the next day to clean my own mess. Sometimes it sucks to have that kind of strength. I'm still cowardly clinging to the basket of self-preservation. Damage control, a friend used to say. I remember his words so well. There's this deep feeling I have truly missed. I feel free and utterly broken at the same time.

The old high drama of life. Feel free to create your own or enjoy my show. Fragility sucks, I want my emptiness back. Perhaps this is about clinging on to a hope of trying to be significant. I have completely forgotten to eat my existentialism dessert these days. I know I have to write when I decide to be alright again. There's the downside in this life I have created, so ideal, so isolated. So perfect. Where was I again?

When I am here, I want to be there. Oppressive summer or the depressing rainy days. Deep sadness or anger. Is there something in between such as unfeeling? There's this lady in the black bucket of water staring at me and grinning. I look up to her, my savior. She's strong and Godlike. Nobody can break her. Extremely focused. She gets what she wants. My own reflection disappeared for a moment. Now I want her back. I want her again so bad.

I craved for some deep connection. Can I have both the body and mind? I'm a sucker for both but I can't have it all. Can you? The desperation only lead to a series of mind games, high-ego, and the whole psycho cycle you know. I've taken the risk of tearing myself apart. Then it happened. I can't seem to stop creating some art in all the different lives I could have lead.

I look back at the art of my life, from bloody dogs, vampire neighbors, evil roosters, to other witches. I've gotten rid of all of them yet I am trapped in the same mud. A big hand trying to pull me back into the darkness that I have long forgotten. I tried to pull myself up again. I'm like the undead that is hard to shoot in the head. That is just the make-believe hero in me.

"Boredom", my friend answered. He repeated until I got his point that my issues are not legitimate. There's freedom in just being nothing. Empty like space. Zero. I have to stop trying to make sense of my infinitesimal existence to this vast universe. I remind myself to just exist and nothing more. Here's the thing, when you have already acquired the more important needs in your life such as shelter, food, water, comfort, silence, money... you will proceed to the next level of drama. You want more. And what do I want? I want to be loved, to be taken care of, to be remembered, to be treated special even just in my own world. And I want to do the same to someone.

For the first time again, I felt that familiar sharp pain my chest. I remember it so well. It was so sudden almost addicting though. It's like a piece of broken glass slowly piercing my heart. I felt so thoroughly unimportant. I feel free to feel. A series of dialogues came into my head, I get what I give. This is my time now. The right moment to feel. I make ego my bitch. Blood streaming down my face, it felt so liberating. Everything. Mother plant says that it's also cleansing. This is spirituality. I'm here at the bottom and there's no other way now but to go up. I cried so hard like there's no tomorrow. I've been missing my tears after being empty for a while. Then it hit me, I'm not a psycho after all. I can still feel. Isn't that the reason to celebrate life? I'm grateful for the feeling. For the pain. For the tears. For being human.