broken pieces

An ode to me. For me.


Broken pieces

Like the dry patch of earth you seem to be walking at aimlessly,
You only see the ground lifeless.

Like the infinite distance of the horizon,
You walk weary from the endless chase.

Like the churning waves in the stormy seas,
You drown from your own tears.

Like the old letters you threw in the fire,
You watch your life story slowly fade with the embers.

Like the shards of glasses which you almost bled yourself dry,
You only see broken pieces of your being.

And very soon, if only you remained still,
If only you looked closer,
If only you chose to save a piece,
If only you chose to live,
A shattered piece in itself becomes whole again, overtime.

If only.

Crayons

I walked to my favorite bookstore; I walked around from shelf to shelf as I did before. I frequent the classics sections; in there I would pick a book, read a page or two or even more. If the atmosphere is not too hostile, if no strict and sullen security guy lurks around, I would spend more than the usual time for browsing. I’d pick a spot, sit there and be oblivious to the world. Yet today is not my usual escapade at the bookstore, no reading buffet on a smorgasbord of the world’s most appetizing era of literature.

Today I walked more, explored more floors, ventured unfamiliar spaces of this institution worth of a bookstore. I am in search of something, something that has been clouding, more aptly speaking- storming, my long since hazy head. And there it was. I didn’t lay my eyes on it on the first instance, its distinct, compound-like infused smell brought me to where it is and there it was, a feast of colors before my eyes…crayons. Yes, crayons. I’ve been longing to touch crayons in my subconscious and I am just blissfully, in a very naïve, enigmatic way lost in its scent and presence. Thank heavens for this sort of inexplicable moments in a young wanderer’s life. Thank you.

Why crayons? Crayons reminded me of my youth. I took a box in my hand, carefully pulled open its paper lid and I marveled at it. I smiled and my eyes welled-up. I remembered when I was young; I filled my life with colors, those days when there’s nothing but innocence and curiosity in me. Innocence allows you to accept childhood mishaps sans the regrets; innocence is both one’s peril and armor; each can be employed effectively to its advantage. And your curiosity, your interest in life is your vehicle to explore the world, if “to know” is innately in you, you are not bound to be lost in the many, one to many pathways of this world. And why do you reckon such philosophical standpoint relates to my crayons? Crayons, as I’ve mentioned, equates to my youth. In your solitude, your crayons accompany you. You explore the world without hesitance, you mix and match colors, you cross the lines, you break rules just like when you break a crayon; you try to put it back together but then you realize that it still a crayon, both ends can still give you color, that it has not lost its purpose after all. You are one and the same, broken or not, you are you, you live out your purpose.