A million blurry eyes crying themselves to sleep at night. Listlessly adrift in the dark, bobbing on waves unseen on our lives like rafts in the current. Landmarks out of sight, alone and floating.
We all have heartbreak tearing at the sutures in our chests. We haphazardly stitch the wounds closed with whatever we can find. Threads of hope and stoic needles.
But the cracked porcelain is never as strong as it was when it was new. We gild our scars in gold, showing them as an honor mark where they appear, sticking out like fluorescent among a gray sky.
We pray for solace, and we search for it in the dark. But what is life if not striving for that just out of reach ideal? Death shall bring it, but life is for the living, and living is the toil toward purpose and peace.
Lone travelers connecting on a barren road. We compare the colors of our eyes to each passerby, looking for familiar reflections in their irises. The foreign sensation of connection breeds anticipation and skepticism.
We pry at the cracks in the porcelain veneer of each other’s exteriors as we try to learn one another. Hoping for a semblance of familiarity and connection.
We see the glint of gilded scars traversing the surface of our kin’s skin and the revelation of similarity is overwhelming. There is connection in the broken. There is understanding in the struggle .
Love is in the scars we bear. Struggles are where we can find kinship. We embrace one another when the road is travelled with these companions. Stacks of broken glass, still reflecting the light that we are all looking for.