To Shatter, To Crash, To Cry

To shatter is a sudden breaking, a violent severance of a whole, a unification, into many pieces with sharp edges: what once was a thing to hold singularly in the hand, close to the body, becomes weaponized, each individual part now gleaming, showing off its knife-like sharpness, letting you know that it can now cut. When something shatters, it usually happens by accident, a small moment to save the thing already falling while the mind is still in shock as to how to grasp it before it hits. Yet the eyes are too mesmerized and slows down all other activity, until consciousness only snaps back to real time when the crash occurs. 

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To crash is when, no holds barred, you're reeling too fast and wanting to stop, but you are being hurled into a moment... after moment after moment, each too hot to process, repeating error after error, fuses burning up. A crash is a feverish ache everywhere with no source, stirring from some core that has been inert, until now, this very now, amplifying itself unmusically, creating curves like the ocean, and the tears fall, slowly, dripping, then all at once, a true rupture, unceasing. 

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To cry is not a weeping. To cry means to stop everything. Crying is stopping everything while it goes on - the crying - whether or not you want it to stop. Eyes get wet and you don't have any say in it. To cry is to instantaneously accept a revelation with no chance at having forethought. That revelation is hurt, a laceration that wishes, at all costs, not to be seen. Crying lets all the shattered pieces come together, swiftly, just to let it all go. 

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- F