Iβm watching myself through the reflection, i look as dead as i feel. iβm trying to pick up the pieces of the hearts that iβve broken. maybe theyβll fit together to make mine. i want to help myself with all the pieces and lay them on a plain sheet so i can judge them separately and inspect even their littlest flaws. I see my mother come but she isnβt looking at me, sheβs looking at what i was trying to piece back together. she nods as if she understands, i try to look into her eyes. but iβm just a reflection. soon she stands in front of me and iβm no longer the reflection. i try to pick up the pieces now, but theyβre slippery. they slipped past my fingers just as quickly as i did from yours. i spill milk over the pieces and try to create a masterpiece. iβve never been an artist but i could always paint the sky. iβve never been a writer but i could always make my words dance. iβve never been a lover but i could always break their hearts. i take the pieces and paste them, i try to create a shape but they donβt fit well with each other. they have cracks over them and they keep changing colours. i grab the one that looks new and break it into two more pieces. i can feel the wicked smile creeping to my face but the tears form just as quickly. the heart looks sad now, i want to piece it back together. iβm the reflection again, i want to help myself with gathering all the pieces and put them together to make it look like a heart, somewhat similar to mine but iβm a mere reflection and Iβll never have any hands, or a voice.
wow.
Drishti Gupta @drishtigupt...
Beautifully expressed.