Story of the Glass Child - A journey behind a broken piece of glass
I often think about the way life shapes you. The way time creates you, like a sculpture. The way it breaks you down, and builds you up. How it can throw you from a cliff and leave you laying breathless on the ground. And how it forces you to make the decision to either stay down there, and give up, or to take a deep breath and get up on your feet again.
I often think about how I ended up here. All the places life brought me to. All the people time made me cross ways with. All the words people have said to me, and what I’ve said to them. How I’ve tried to explain myself, how some understood, but most of them didn’t. And I often ask myself, what happened with all those people I see every day. What made them lose their fire, and when did it happen? I wonder, how can time damage so many souls?
I think about the child I was. How I awoke with open eyes, curious and excited about the day. And how time slowly closed my eyes, a little more for every passing year. I grew older and my eyes grew smaller, until they finally closed. I stayed in bed longer, and longer, until the point when I one day stayed in bed, unable to find one single reason to get up. I laid there, thinking through each and every year. About how life time after time threw me from that cliff. And how I time after time got back up on my feet, started to walk and slowly aimed for the highest top of the mountain again. It took longer and longer to get up every time, and I was more exhausted and out of breath after every climb. It was as if every time I fell and hit the ground, I broke more and more bones. I got so easily broken that one day I couldn’t get back up, and if I hit the ground one more time I would break into 1000 pieces. I had turned into glass. But it felt as if life handled me like an unbreakable stone, throwing me around to see how much I could take. And so, one day, I didn’t have the strength to get back up on my feet again. So I stayed down there. Laying on the ground. Determined to never get up again. I was done. Finished. Tired and uninspired.
But somehow, I found it, or it found me. The discovery of the way art, words and music can make me forget about my broken strength. As if I heard a distant melody somewhere, calling my name. And then the moments, when you hear that song with the right words, in the right time. And everything suddenly feels like it’s exactly how it’s supposed to be. It might hurt, and it might be sad, but it’s exactly how it’s meant to be, because otherwise this song wouldn’t exist, and it wouldn’t be so beautiful, and this moment wouldn’t exist.
It somehow refueled me, and slowly made me get back up on my feet, I just had to see where that beautiful melody came from. A few weeks went by, without me falling. I got up every day, thinking that I just wanted one more day to discover this new world, to get to sing one more day, to maybe write that song and create that magical moment myself. And suddenly I awoke again, with wide open eyes. I awoke again, just like I used to do when I was younger, with burning excitement to discover the world of art, poetry and music. Some days I still wake up with that fire, but some days I once again wake up, starring at the ceiling, asking myself why I should get up and get through the day.
Why do I tell you this? Because I need you to know that I am one of you. I am not a fictional character, or something that a mainstream company has created. I am just like you. With good days and bad days. With strengths and weaknesess. And the truth is, those broken bones of mine are still aching. I often feel like I’m made of glass. Like I can break in an instant if someone isn’t careful enough. The truth is, I’m not a brave person. I’m so scared that someone will ruin my world I’ve built for myself inside this music and poetry, that I’ve carefully put up those walls between me and them. But sometimes, just small little words from another person can make cracks in them walls and cut like sharp fucking knives. Like stones thrown into a glasshouse. Like my walls are made of glass.
I often feel that there is something wrong with my eyes, or my view, because where everyone seems to see endless beauty, I see sadness. A sad, sad beauty. Like everything is slightly broken. In the most perfect way. As if it’s created that way. As if I’m seeing the world through a broken piece of glass. Broken by stones, or words, that people have thrown at it.
My world is broken, but in the most perfect way, and I wouldn’t wanna live anywhere else.
