The Sculpture And The Thrown

I have abandoned my old for new, and let in the new with such an energy that I can almost taste the refreshing entertainment of a new territory on my tongue. The exhilaration of it all turns me anxious and a riot of love and devotion awaits its chance to escape this prison-like heart of mine. The exchange of my friendships, thrills, and rushes for the life of a stable, educated, striving man, has already begun to pay off with happiness and contentment. Yet a vital part to this sculpture of my new life is still missing. This part is broken, and needs repair before I make the decision to finish this piece of art. Undoubtedly, it is repairable, but does the part even want to be fixed? Does this part feel as if it doesn't belong? Who am I to know the destiny of such an abstract design, flailing about in my subconscious mind like a bird in search of its meal? Who am I to determine what is to become of this life in later days. Who am I to force upon this part to be a member of this creation? I am the creator, and I am the mind that brought the sculpture into existence. I am the one that has had to patch up the mistakes from past disruptions. I can decide whether I want to put the part onto the sculpture, but I cannot make it remain there. I cannot make it reside where it does not belong. A caring soul is yet to be seen by such eyes as hers. A brilliant change in perspective has been blinded from her mind to read. I stand here, upon my liars chair, and tell truths as if they were fairytales. Remove the label from this cursed thrown I have so intently sit upon for so many years and read me for who I am. This life, undoubtedly, has no time to spare for unconscious thinking. This life has no room for biased attitudes towards prior imperfections. This caring heart of mine remains within your grasp for as long as you so please.

-quixotic-