Beautifully Shattered Messes

{A Salad Bug: (aka) random midnight word crafting, usually done when suffering from insomnia or deeply inspired by an incidental source}

   IT WAS A friendly day. With birds and bees alike, abouting their businesses and enjoying the breezy morning atmosphere. If only time might stay so loving---so free. The illusion of perfection in a single piece. But too much is twisted into gnarled messes. Beautifully shattered messes. Fractured  like a vintage mirror after a slingshot mayhap.
   Down the hall, beneath the stairs, the electric blues of an echoing past rent into sundering remains still flutters, half-alive. Half breathing. Like a beached whale still clinging to mortality. It's intriguing. A mystery, breathing each clue onto scattered pages of day-old paper. Scary, frightening, like a quickening shadow belonging to nothing but the pretend monsters that chase you at night. But there is deliciousness. Sweetness from sorrow, salvation from suffering. A pinch of cinnamon-sugar atop a slice of toast. A bank of marsh mellow drifting aimlessly in hot chocolate.
   Too much? Too little? Never enough.
   Your brain ceases to see a pattern. It fails to connect. You know these are words, phrases even, but meaningless at the same time. Maybe beautiful, but senseless too. Remember the those tears that welled in your eyeballs and wet your cheeks? Remembering hurts. Remembering stings, like a thousand hornets all merciless, all mad. But you feel.
   Your eyes close. You listen. Perhaps to nothing at all. But alive in the quietness, pitterpatters of hopeful healing--they shatter silence and end all despair of the moment. It's wild. Wild enough to release a breath of relief, enough to carry you further than you'd ever hope to go.
Can you be sad and still be bubbly? Can you be burning inside and still smile brighter than ever before? I knew someone who did. I knew someone who was. I know someone who is.

(via pinterest)

   The day is over. It's dark now. Darker than before. The electric blue beneath the stairs is brighter now. There are wings. Butterflies, bountiful in numbers, are the ghosts in the house of my imagination. They sing me to sleep, as I lay fretful in my own recollection of what will never be again. But it's okay.

   Everything will be all right.