Millions of Shattered Pieces
Memories...are like shattered glass. Stained with blood from the sudden burst, tinted to the surrounding colors, edged and cut to the type of break, glinted to any light within its reach, catches any reflection; but only to be seen by itself, sometimes the surface is chipped or scarred. And all at once, every single of the millions of pieces is beautiful.
Because, within each tampered one...there lies a memory. A memory only to be passed when someone goes and picks up the mess, or when it gets sent to factories and is recycled into new glass, or sometimes when it washes away and drifts up to shore.
Millions of memories, and if you step on them...it cuts you, if you try to put them back together...it just breaks again, somewhere down the line.
You look back on those memories, and wish to change it, you could've made someone laugh here, you didnt have to make someone cry there, and maybe...it was probably a good idea to get up and go to the bathroom there.
And you can think all you want, you cant try a reanactment, you could apoligize, or you could just wait for that subject to come up, so you can make that person laugh.
You could try to put them back together, but one wrong placement and the bottle crashes. And then, just to get back to the house, you have to step on them again.
And born are the cuts and scars, serious, infectious, severe. By then, you realize...you'll just have to wait till they heal up. Cause no band-aid is gonna hold that scar, no bandage is gonna stop the bleeding, youll just have to wait.
So instead of trying to fix these things...make new memories, every single second is a memory, fix it.
Ingore the cuts, ingore the bruises, ingore that sharp pain, you get when you remember of how you hurt someone
Ignore them, and just keep walking. Until you find a new bottle, strong enough to last a memory, big enough to carry the lies.
And study your memories, thats really just s bottle to soon break into a million pieces, pieces that you can only review in your mind.