After the storm passed, I looked around and caught glimpses of things that once belonged to me. This pile of broken dreams and broken spirits laid to waste, seemingly there as stark reminders of nature's force. Amidst the desolation, there were fragments of memories too fluid to crystallize or melt away. The storm obliterated all.
How do we pick up the pieces of our discontent? The glass shards cut deepest where the skin is exposed; that delicate yet fragile layer of make-believe.
Here, beneath the rubble, we found subtle signs of life. We thought the storm had devastated everything. Here in the dead of winter, there was something we had missed. Its heartbeat was shallow yes, but there was life, looking back at us in open mockery.
Sleepwalking. We found ourselves in a spectral embrace too rigid to shake. Eyes wide closed, stumbling to find, nay, to touch, whatever strings remained. The lightning had made killing fields of our surroundings. The smoke wafted deep into our lungs. We could taste the killing that had occurred.
The situation while clear required deep thinking. Damaging winds and lesser demons hid within tunnels and around corners, chasing us, deeper into the chasm. These creatures of irreverence lashed at our ankles with deadly precision, hoping to find the exposed skin and bleed us out.
Had we lost their protection? Were their wings no longer flapping towards us? Their chanting had ceased and we were all on our own. These angels who once guided us, had disappeared full of melancholy and hysteria. We must have been the last in line; the ones that evaded their concerns and awkward glances.
Make ourselves whole again. Make ourselves into sparkling visions. Ones that bleed and still show signs of life. Ones that blur into images of unknown artists, coping, describing, creating. Unrelenting visions armored to the teeth, yet exposing open wounds.
The glass shards lay there underneath a pile of broken dreams. Coalescing into the mirror we once used to know.
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