August 17th, 2009
|01:33 pm - of shards and sandcastles ;;|
The hardest part coming home is reintegration -
because try as you may to make the pieces fit, they don't .
or maybe the hardest part is admitting that the pieces never fit to begin with, that they were long ago broken, and all you are left right now is making broken shards weave together like a symphony , playing the masquerade that the healing process begins here -- right at home .
then you realize the hardest part coming home isn't reintegration, isn't getting used to old memories crumbling into your system and forcing you to confront old buried tragic fragments of your old (fucing) life ---
--- you look into the mirror and see a (fucking) hole -- oh, wait is that a bloody tear right down into your heart?
.. it doesn't take a genius to figure out that the hardest part coming home is watching your alternate reality constructed running outside home (pretending none of your last few dreary years happened, pretending you didn't stand and watch your world die, didn't cry your eyes out until you were so fucking tired you fell asleep with the pillow in your face) ---- being crushed into a million pieces.
you ran away to escape, remember?
now you're fucking back .
you laugh. "no no, i'm back, but things will change, just watch and see."
you fucking liar.
the shards don't fit anymore, never had, never will --
they say you're making sandcastles out of the air.
you know actually, you see.
you just like to pretend those sandcastles still exist, floating in the sky like lovely clouds --
who cares about broken shards when you can create your own alternate perception of a fairytale ending right at home?
(fucking hole, fucking trigger to the head, fucking tear every where----)
"let me live in the clouds." you say.
you fucking coward.