Tuesday, October 18, 2011


These are the pieces of me.

Each is a strand, each strand makes up some part of myself.
They are collected less than a handful. They are fragile things, hardly
strings, and yet each carries so much weight.

A piece is torn off by my mother as she digs into that last
vestiges of what I would call my soul. She rips and she shreds and she tears
her way in. She racks the piece, ripping off tendrils and strings until there
is but the barest thread left in its place. It hangs there, held together by nothing
but hope and its association with somewhat stronger threads.

This piece if my pride, my desire, my dreams, all rolled
into one. A craving for acknowledgment and realization. A belief that I am
worthy and a cry in the dark for praise, for accomplishment for anything. Years
wear down the strands over the years, and slivers of silky tendrils hang in the
air, almost as tired and beaten as the first piece.

Then there is love. The anger, the hatred, the rage, the
jealousy and the love, this strand of feelings and emotions, love being the
thread woven most often and the one wrecked equally. Rage, and anger, and
despair and pain, and folly, and foolishness, and hatred, and desire and twine
themselves around; making a strand that is strong a piece that is sold, but for
all the breaks in love. Each break rends deeper and more painfully than the
last making the moment of its final demise impossible to tell.

And here is my body; this vessel meant to hold me together,
and barely functional. Alone it has ripped itself apart several times, without prompting
and without check. Less than skillful work holds it together, that and will.
Will keeping it moving and keeping it strong, though it shows the wear of use
and age and looks almost fragile enough to break at any moment.

Then there is will, a glue binding all these pieces together.
Will, the will to believe that I am more than all these tiny pieces of me. The
will to push through it all, the pain, the angry, the loathing, the
hatred, the rage, the fear. The will is
strong, but the smallest pieces it holds together remain fragile and worn. How
much will to keep it all together? Will it be enough or fail and it all be lost
in the end.

These are the pieces of me and
they are barely more now than a gathering of frayed ribbons on a strong wind
moments way from permanent distribution into the great unknown.