mosaic

i envy the empty because they can always begin anew. while the hollowness hurts, only time passes before something refills the vessel.

on the other hand, i am broken, shattered. i am the millions of pieces of what i once was. the empty are lucky: they can be refilled while the shattered bleed anew, being filled up with the brokenness they are from the inside.

so what can i do? remain immobile. out of fear of being hurt, i move neither here nor there.

but that is a static life, a perpetual state of mourning. these pieces are not to be mourned over, but rather, used to create something new.

it takes the brave hand to grasp each shard and fear not the blood and torn flesh. a patient hand to craft and place them. a loving hand to direct the work of art into something glorious.

i've already started. my hands are raw but i can't stop now or i'll bleed to death.

i hope what i've created when i'm done with the pieces will be worthy of the glass sculpture that stood before it.