I am a composition of numerous fragments glued carefully together–
Sometimes forced together–
In patterns of controlled Chaos.
Each splinter, each sliver, a piece of who I am and will never be
Yet not all are known or even numbered
Some nights, I feel a void where a scrap is missing
Yes, even a few of them–
Enough that I can feel the melancholy seep through,
Not unlike light as it escapes through an open door, just wide enough
For it’s glow to spill onto the floor in a honey colored stream.
But not warmth or security it brings
instead, to me–
The feeling that there is a little less of me to give
A little less of me to share and a little more of me to keep all to myself
Even in this house full of souls who would take all if I would offer it.
So I pretend that every piece is here–
More often than I would like–
And quietly sweep my shavings under the rug
Until there is a time when I am free to plainly be
And I can gather back the bits of myself and see just what I am made of.
The older I get, the more it seems to me that I am made up of things that I had no idea were even part of my composition. It never ceases to surprise me that I discover bits here and there that I could see in others and now find in myself. Sometimes I think my vision of myself is definitely skewed. I don’t see me spiritually, mentally or physically the way I really am and I am not sure if that is normal or not. Hello, is that normal? Anyone?
It is so easy for me to se the pieces of me that others have always seen. The tricky part is discovering the hidden spots that no one has ever seen or perhaps chooses not to see. It takes both the good and the bad to make a person whole. It is what makes us human and fallible and unique and amazing all rolled into one.
Unique and amazing. All rolled into one.