Recursive Existence
When I think of change, I think of the cracks: the moments that shook me and took me and continue to break me. I'd like to think I'm strong, but I've broken several times. Through loneliness and fear I've shattered, put myself back together, and shattered again.
The wheel never stops spinning. The cycle is predictable, yet I fall for it every time. Maybe this time I'll be happy. Maybe this will be enough.
I crack, I break, I change.
I crack, I break, I change.
At an art exhibit I once saw, they were showcasing a style of art where they take broken things and fix the cracks with gold. It's supposed to show that something can be more beautiful after it's broken.
But I have to wonder. What happens when it breaks again? And again? And again? What happens when the artist grows tired of fixing it? What happens when there's nothing left of the original? Tiny pieces get lost in the carpet or swept under the rug over and over until there's nothing left to sweep up.
What should I do? I can change. I can always change, but life remains immutable. The wheel won't stop. I could wedge my body between the gears, but it would simply rip me in half.
What should I do? I can stop changing. I can always stop changing, but life remains immutable. If I'm going to break anyway, then why do I continue to change? Is it just my ego wanting to say that I didn't give up?
At the bottom of the box lies the cruelest of gifts. It keeps me changing, keeps me spinning, keeps me thinking I'll be better tomorrow. Hope is the only drug I can never truly quit.
So I'll try and I'll change and I'll break. I'll spin and I'll spin and I'll spin. Hoping, always hoping, that someday I can stop.
