Broken Pieces and the Queen.

Going on and with life, walking around she picks little shards of broken glasses. Aware that these were discarded mostly intentionally but not always, still ignored by the original owners in either case, she collects them. She collects them not to be nice but just cause it's her nature. This quality of hers was though only present slightly in higher levels innately than others, her daily and early experiences developed and brought it forth so much that it's become a very integral part of what she was or still is. She collects them, wears them like jewels or sometimes puts them in her bag and sometimes does both. Of course, she has her own shards to tend to too. Every single one of them, a labour of love. No, rather like I described earlier it's just her nature. Not a conscious effort anymore, it's become her. Some carved and honed by the right tools and conditions, glow and sparkle shinier than diamonds, while some are just crushed into pieces in the process. No one can tell what's produced and how they turn out to be. Nevertheless she carries and wears them both just as proudly. No, again not so much with pride, but just because that's what she does and is. I think that these diamonds or broken pieces are my perception and to her eyes they are just the same. She picks them up, puts them in her bag or wears them but they slowly get back into her, into what she is and come out again transformed and changed. As she walks by I realize a broken piece drop from me, then changed by her touch and presence but still missed by her. Luckily but gingerly I pick it up and put it in my pocket and may be even wear it sometime.

Silence

The silence with no one around feels great. Being alone now after a day of meeting friends, a few old and most new, is so welcoming. The silence, with absence of any music (which is very unusual for and of me) feels therapeutic. The mental noise of unnecessary comparisons and insecurities raised by those has calmed down now because of the mental exhaustion. It now led to some kind of apathetic peace. The silence created by abstaining from talking to a friend to vent out my frustrations and complaints feels so right. A need to listen to a song had crept in. It's a loud song that I felt needed to listen to at a particularly low volume. I listened to it and now am done. The silence continues as an enabler of the regular minute sounds, the continuous movement of the fake gears of my electronic clock, the occasional bird chirps, the sound of the key placed in the lock and the mechanical click & opening of the door and of course the sound the pen makes as it scrapes against the paper as I write. It's also a silence created by having to think about just what I want to write and nothing else.