I have been broken. From the cracks that have emerged from the impact with the present comes leaking forth the remnants of a past self. I still hold the shape of myself before the fall, and you can recognize the same color in my eyes and the shade of hay in my hair. But if you look closer the cracks have now formed. Pondering the fall from a height, the catalyst isn’t obvious or apparent. As a hermit crab outgrows its shell and goes in search of a new one to protect it, I feel that we too must outgrow the confines of our own shells in order to continue. Without growth is death.
There is fear in the fall. There is nervous energy in uncertainty. I have come to realize that forward is the only direction, and the past is a memory. Certainly shaping our architecture, our history is our bones. The exterior: the skin and the hair are ever growing anew. We can feel the ache of our skeletons as they carry our own personal story forward into the unknown, but the structure stands.
Sunrises and sunsets bake their pigment into our skin. Even this shall fade in the darkness. We are walking and talking stories promising resolution to the chapter, and even innumerable sequels. We are tasked with clutching the quill and writing the next word to keep the momentum of our own personal prose. Live as a mockingbird, repeating the magic of the visages of our environment that we are granted. Because even if we share a similar tone, our voices are unique. Insight from the ether, and verses cloaked in mystery are to be chanted with an echo through the halls of our history. We are the voice, and the world is our chamber.
How often we hide beneath the constructs of a world not of our making, but dependent on our contribution. The hammers that drive the nails into the timber of a building that we do not own. We could be a flame, burning down the houses that we haunt. We could be the roots and the vines that grow amidst the cracks in the veneer. We could be the drip of water, rotting away the bases of the cages that we inhabit. The choice is ours.
Propositions and promises. We can be the architects of our minds and souls. Listen to them lingering as whispers in the breeze. Calls to recognize that there is still breath in the chests of the forgotten. We are the instrument of the resulting wind, and our songs are waiting to be played. Do we recognize the melody? An ancient chorus, calling out to us to join in. We are the harmony to continue the anthem.
Take up arms and voices as we all inhabit the cracks on the surfaces of our lives. Take comfort in knowing that to be broken is to be a bourgeoning soul. To all of the lost, and broken, and fractured I say to you this: you are on the forefront of the continuation of the fable that is us. Without reaching that point, the story can never go on.