A flashback, my body's feeble attempt at catharsis.
And I saw you there. Where I was stuck, you were always there.
Which maybe explains why you're such a reoccurring theme,
In my thoughts, in my nightmares, I suppose you're still a part of me.
It almost seems hopeless, fighting like this to rid myself animus.
Animus for you, a seething hatred for me. Maybe not me as a person. Maybe just how I handled things.
Handled you. You were a package damaged in shipping though.
All the glue in the world can't fix the priceless vase the mailman dropped on my front porch that day.
"How lucky," I thought to myself. Something of value, finally, that I can hold on to.
I just have to get all the pieces back in the right place.
And so the labors of love came forth, I examined each piece and tried to reconstruct you the best I could
Tried to put the puzzle back together without looking at the box. I thought I did a good job.
From a distance it was a thing of beauty to marvel what I had, and what had really become a part of me.
The reconstruction took up all my time, I got all my friends involved in it.
Maybe not enough. Maybe too much.
Or maybe I should have known going in
That all the glue in the world
Can't hide cracks
Cracks that begin to show once someone got close.
The cracks that, over time, as souls heat up and cool
Eventually they begin to inch and linger and mosey
The way two old people ready to die do
When they walk down the beach one last time.
Except we weren't old, and we certainly weren't ready to die.
Sometimes the nicest vase in the world
Isn't worth a big gluey mess.
You fill it with water
And it seeps through the places,
It's funny, how much this letter applies to more than just you.
I can now think of someone else who came to me like this, who I tried to piece together.
The tiniest crevices, where you would have never thought to glue it together at.
Or maybe my concept of the whole was the flaw in the plan.
One can't assemble something they've never seen
With no concept or heading, or even an idea
Of how it's supposed to work. Perhaps I was damaged just as you.
And with my broken and numb and altogether necrotized fingers
Simply didn't have the dexterity to assemble the splinters
I wanted to sweep off the floor but couldn't due to my failing eye sight.
But what does it really matter? What does it mean to me?
You never would admit it, but every REALLY GOOD story does have a theme
Does have a purpose. What did the protagonist learn from overcoming this conflict?
Maybe I won't know, because I haven't overcome it yet.
If I had I wouldn't be writing letters to you
In the middle of the night trying to figure out if I've learned anything yet.
Or maybe you had nothing to teach me. Or maybe I can never really learn. Tschuss.
