Friday, August 23, 2013

What its like on the inside

Picture a beautiful vase, any colour you like. Large and gorgeous. In your mind-see yourself beside this vase, happy, talkative, engaging. Smash it to pieces. But its okay there are people who say give us all of your pieces. Hand them to us, all of them, we will put them back together-stronger than before. They promise.

You take these pieces hand some of them over. And take the rest-divided into little tiny beautiful bags. Close to you like treasures, you hand them out. "Here take the pieces of me, all these pieces of me. Never open the bag-and see what is inside. You can have them, but there is a catch-there always is. I'll tell you at the end." You give them with joy in your step. Making people feel special so important to hold all these pieces. You finally feel special sharing all these pieces of you.

Take these people dancing, dance circles around them. Spin, spin, spinning until you can't see the faces or hear your thoughts. Spin, and dance with laughter and joy, until the blood rushing in your ears makes your believe your flying. Keep spinning around. Feel that hole in your stomach-bubbling up. Keep spinning ignoring the increasing height of its contents. Fling the pieces of you all around-some of you for all! So sick, now its the sick parts of you for all-because you can't stop spinning. Everything turns black

See yourself alone, with what is left of these beautiful bags holding those pieces. Completely alone. Missing parts of yourself. Pour those bags out, smash them more-right to dust. Cry. You can't remember how you got there. Be angry, shout and scream, beg for a way out. Trap yourself with those left over shattered pieces. Wonder where the rest went. Those helpful people will hand you back the ones you gave away initially.

But they're put together wrong. Its not the same. Nothing feels right, the weight, colour-its wrong all wrong. Smash it again, this time with anger and emptiness in your thoughts. You realize, its time to call in the catch. The gimmick. The requirement for all those beautiful mosaic pieces you gave away in joyful abandon. "Kill me with those bags of who I am. Choke me with them, hang me with the strings." You will say. Begging with tears in your eyes, your joints aching with despair. Your heart missing. "Please, all I see is black, and emptiness. Please, I'm so tired of spinning, around and around. Please" You'll scream, but really its a whisper. You'll hear it-so loud in your own ears. Non existent in the external universe. The black takes over again.

Now your back, at the beginning. With that beautiful vase. But you're different-no one sees it but you. You're scarred. Torn where no one can see. Do the whole thing over again. Over and over. Until it destroys your skin. the outside of you. Until someone asks-why are you crying? are you alright?

"Yes, its just a rough day" is all you say, while filling those bags, with pieces of you.

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