shattering

So sometimes we do have an idea of ourself, who we are and what makes us tick. Our likes and loathes. And sometimes an event can happen that shatters it. There is the rupture of the Self. The ancient blossom of fern cracking and crystallising, a hundred thousand wee shards of glass all held in the shatterproof frame of our sense of Self. We don't fall to pieces. Like this glass we hold the pattern of the blow and its concussion. We stumble forward and suddenly life is refracted into noise and light and places and people that don't seem to put themselves together into the story of a life. A chaos of birds panic outwards. Suddenly, life is this jaggy crushed thing that doesn't fit together. It makes no sense. Moving forward makes no sense. It's just light winking off objects that have no meaning.

This happened to me once a while ago.

But time heals if we are lucky and loved. Time and gravity's crush powders our self to dust and we are recast. Perhaps more robust and shatterproof. Objects find meaning, life becomes a story we understand, light shines true through us. The soul is mended.