They say you’re the whole **** thing—
the stars, the beggar on the corner,
the lover who left you bleeding
and the cop who fined you for it.
One life at a time,
one failure after another,
you’re everyone and no one,
just waiting for the cracks to show.
Some holy fool whispers,
“You’re the universe learning itself.”
Well, what’s it learning, huh?
How to crawl through dirt?
How to choke on your own dreams
and smile while doing it?
It’s a sick joke, this cosmic egg,
wrapped in gilded lies and half-baked truths,
like Wilde’s wit, polished,
but bitter underneath.
You think you’re only you—
the tired eyes in the mirror,
the aching feet that shuffle home.
But somewhere,
you’re the king in his velvet robes,
drowning in gold,
or the soldier buried in the mud,
forgotten before the war even ends.
All pieces of the same shell,
all scattered across the floor.
They dress it up like wisdom:
You break, you’re born again.
Every crack a lesson,
every fall a step forward.
But sometimes,
it’s just falling.
Just hitting the ground over and over
until you forget what flying felt like.
Still, if you’re everyone,
then maybe the pain belongs to you too.
The laughter,
the warmth of a stranger’s hand,
the quiet moments that don’t ask for meaning.
Maybe that’s what holds it together—
this mess of cracks and light.
Maybe that’s why you keep living,
why you keep breaking.
Because someday,
when the last shell falls,
and the pieces finally fit,
you’ll remember.
You’ll remember you were everything,
and nothing hurt
as much as forgetting.