Reprinted from Instagram.
I wonder what she sees when she closes her eyes. A peaceful lake. A cabin in the sky. Forever sunshine. Or maybe rain. Chaos and waves. A creaking tree bending in the wind. Signs of life, but destructive elements. Beauty and the beast coiled around itself like tight strands of a rope. Impossible to separate, to untangle, without undoing the rope itself. It cannot be easy for her. To sleep. To wonder if the rope is there to hold everything together. Or to strangle her.
There are broken pieces that may never be whole. She sits patiently and glues, sanding down the edges and pressing them back into shape. Building and rebuilding when they sometimes crack again. I am always becoming. And that is maddening. When will it be? What will it be? And what is it along the way?
A lone light shines in a darkened house. Sand. Glue. Polish. It reflects off her face as I stare back at her through the glare. Sand. Glue. Polish. She sees something I can’t, when her eyes are open. Sand. Glue. Polish. She knows what it has already become.