Fractured

It's strange in comparison how small your life is. When tragedy strikes you it feels as though your world and the world is decomposing. It feels annoying that you can see people so happy and at peace with things like the rain being a beautiful sound to their ears. You sit and contemplate how the hell they could be so happy when the world you know is cascading to the floor around you. The insides are rotting out and turning shades of crimson and charcoal, yet others can dream of the radiance of the sun and walk through moist wisps as if in a golden palace; somewhere you just don't have the ability to see yet. The quests of questions like guerrilla soldiers appearing from the depths of foliage to shoot down the beams of breath giving joy. The wisdom that ravages the ignorance to the feelings of grief as you become a fractured form of the being you once were. Your strong exoskeleton of protection is much like that of a fragile crystal vase, it is heated up to extreme heats and dumped on with icy realizations, it has no other scientific choice but to explode and fall to pieces; and much like that lightning struck sand usually does, you collect the large fragments and place them together, yet there are always the slivers of unlived dreams scattered around the crime scene that will never be found, and will never be reconstituted. There will forever be tiny holes in that outer framework of your life missing. But it's okay for everyone else. They are able to return to their universes filled with their positive magic unicorns and the rainbows of everlasting promises, unaware that today there was a black, tonight there was an ending, the sun had not yet risen and there was a soul traveling on its way towards a brighter forever, and there was a shattered shape of a man curled against a midnight wall with the somehow less beautiful version of rain avalanching down from two closed orbs. It's strange how small your life may seem when you compare to the life of someone else.