You know it is strange–how we go on pretending to be one single entity, while carrying the broken pieces of each and every part of ourselves. We go on thinking we are one whole being, yet we have many voices within us which mirror the selves which are either hidden away or have yet to appear fully.
We have that part which is not healed yet, which is still broken–which does not cease to be. It holds no secrets, only fear and remorse and sometimes even shame. It is vulnerable–so much so that it becomes vulnerable even from us, if we are not rushing past it.
We have that part within us which is still not fully matured, it still clings on to hope and laughter and plays around with the wind while it yearns to dance in the rain. In the open ground of beautiful colored vines, it jumps and sways.
There it meets its match–the part of us which has is either taken by age, pain or circumstances. Occasionally it gets taken by all of these. All it does is stare with a hollow look at you–maybe beyond you. As it is covered in hues of grey which keep spreading like the plague taking everything within its fold. It makes no promises–it keeps none.
And while the ghosts around us are busy in their melancholia, the part of us which died a long time ago also stirs somewhere. Perhaps rattled by the conundrum outside–it tries to wake up but it is bound by time. And you know you are not the Messiah–you cannot revive it.
SO you sit with the part which is hurt and you sit with it for a long time. The same time which seems scattered now into a million specks of dust and doom and glory. And you both are frozen because that is what it all comes down to.
There is heart and there is the mind and there is no conflict between them–but only what we imagine and cannot fathom. When we can no longer fathom it, that is where we feel lost. These parts, no matter how scattered are still all us. And this is what makes it all so grim, beautiful and scary. And when we become tired of all these parts, they play hide and seek with us. They do that even when we are not tired–sometimes, they simply do that because that is all they know.
And then there are fireworks–and the ghosts–they turn out to be our own shadows. Either we run from them, or they run from us. So all the parts of us–they become whole, singular–only to get dislodged into a vacuum.
Silent Observer 