Feb 2019
Is the glass half empty or half full?
Full does not matter and empty need not apply because I smashed the glass on the floor into a million glittering pieces.
Why am I writing this? Because you were my glass. My fragile, delicate glass ballerina. The kind you see in those antique shop that have existed longer than time itself. Just sitting in that glass cabinet next to the ancient cash register gathering dust. Only you are not gathering dust, you are going out, you are going out and being social. You are going out and being the one thing you have lately, or maybe not so lately, have not been with me. Happy.
I completely acknowledge that this is my own doing. I was the one viewing you as a dusty antique, not as a beautiful hand-blown figurine composed of the rays of the sun. When you said you needed some time apart a part of me was ripped out. Not because I did not seeing it coming, but because I had seen it coming for such a long time. Like a train wreck that my eyes were surgically stitched to. Like the old light house keeper that seeing a storm brewing on the horizon but warns no one in the town below. Because nothing he does, and sure as hell nothing he says will stop it from forming nor will stop it from tearing down everything that had been built up. Secretly I am the old lighthouse keeper. I hope this storm knocks over the light house along with the feelings I have, not had, but still have for you. Not because I do not want these feelings but because every time I think back you me saying “I love you” and you saying “I love you too” it feels like meat hooks being dug into my very being. Mine are still genuine with the same feeling of “I love you” but yours, I know yours do not mean the same anymore. I want that light house to be nothing but a memory because these feelings, these emotions are tearing me apart. I tried to move on. I tried to be happy. But the only way I saw Happy and myself coexisting was with you between us.
I have been wearing the comedy mask in everything you see as to not let the tragedy mask show my true colors. That’s the funny thing, as far as William Shakespeare was concerned the only difference between a comedy and a tragedy was whether or not the protagonist survived. Your story, this story, will remain a comedy because the protagonist lives on while, me, the antagonist is left one stiff breeze from toppling off the edge of a seven story building.
I am sorry, I know the feeble words of man mean nothing but as of now that is all I can give you as I swallow these broken shards of glass. To me it does not matter if the glass is half empty, half full, one third full, three fourths empty, or anything else. Because my glass is gone. No longer gathering dust on a shelf, but out showing the world how much she truly shimmer.
Full does not matter and empty need not apply because I smashed the glass on the floor into a million glittering pieces.
Why am I writing this? Because you were my glass. My fragile, delicate glass ballerina. The kind you see in those antique shop that have existed longer than time itself. Just sitting in that glass cabinet next to the ancient cash register gathering dust. Only you are not gathering dust, you are going out, you are going out and being social. You are going out and being the one thing you have lately, or maybe not so lately, have not been with me. Happy.
I completely acknowledge that this is my own doing. I was the one viewing you as a dusty antique, not as a beautiful hand-blown figurine composed of the rays of the sun. When you said you needed some time apart a part of me was ripped out. Not because I did not seeing it coming, but because I had seen it coming for such a long time. Like a train wreck that my eyes were surgically stitched to. Like the old light house keeper that seeing a storm brewing on the horizon but warns no one in the town below. Because nothing he does, and sure as hell nothing he says will stop it from forming nor will stop it from tearing down everything that had been built up. Secretly I am the old lighthouse keeper. I hope this storm knocks over the light house along with the feelings I have, not had, but still have for you. Not because I do not want these feelings but because every time I think back you me saying “I love you” and you saying “I love you too” it feels like meat hooks being dug into my very being. Mine are still genuine with the same feeling of “I love you” but yours, I know yours do not mean the same anymore. I want that light house to be nothing but a memory because these feelings, these emotions are tearing me apart. I tried to move on. I tried to be happy. But the only way I saw Happy and myself coexisting was with you between us.
I have been wearing the comedy mask in everything you see as to not let the tragedy mask show my true colors. That’s the funny thing, as far as William Shakespeare was concerned the only difference between a comedy and a tragedy was whether or not the protagonist survived. Your story, this story, will remain a comedy because the protagonist lives on while, me, the antagonist is left one stiff breeze from toppling off the edge of a seven story building.
I am sorry, I know the feeble words of man mean nothing but as of now that is all I can give you as I swallow these broken shards of glass. To me it does not matter if the glass is half empty, half full, one third full, three fourths empty, or anything else. Because my glass is gone. No longer gathering dust on a shelf, but out showing the world how much she truly shimmer.
