I had a home once. The ashes of the sea; the remnants of people who once, too, dared to dream, though they never left the shore—afraid that the world beyond might be as cruel as the waves’ rhythm. Only the undertow is gentler than the heavy footsteps of people in the city, one foot after another, filled with desperation to climb ranks, failing to look beneath their soles where some of my kin clung desperately. They cling because they fear—they fear letting the wind blow them away. The fetid shoes give a false sense of authority over their lives, making it seem as though they are moving forward, when in truth they stray farther. And I do not wish to see myself pulverized slowly beneath someone’s load; I desire to be crushed by the weight of the life I am to live and the memories I am yet to create.
Even so, I understand why the shore is our haven. Alone, we are but fleeting specks; together, we shatter the water’s movement—for the city ahead.
…
Dear, you must be mad for never wanting to soar.
I would be solitary, but the fragments of the stars were once floating pieces of nothingness until fate decreed they should be no longer. And they burned brightly, balls of ghastly light to be looked upon above the people whose soles trample on us. That is what I want—and wanting is a crime to the ignorant.
I went with the brave ones who chose to leave. My fear grew when I saw how the great city segregated those of no use.
The kiln offered my first taste of fire. Unlike the saltiness of the sea, which merely shriveled me, the burn seared, and the contortion—cruel though it was—granted me form. I was no longer insignificant, no longer absurd. I was to shine.
Fragile, the mirror and I are to be cradled gently. Yet a mirror, when held, shows only what people wish to see. I longed for that, but I was no longer ignorant. My shards tear the skin of those who dare embrace me. Tell me: if I have journeyed so far only to wound, why do I fall short? Never deep enough to pierce hearts like swords, never fine enough to mend wounds like needles. Is mediocrity the price of dreaming for more?
Yes, I glint like a true mirrorball, but only beneath a borrowed light; a real mirror is revered for laying bare both the ugly truths and the beauty before it. At the depths of night, I could only envy the stars I once wished upon. They bore their own glow, admired like the shore I once loathed.
I could see them laughing beneath me. But God does not hear everyone who towers above, if all they can do is raise their heads to the sky and pray that the rain be lighter than the currents. God is kind, but He is also cruel to those who have walked farther than they could march.
Joyous they are, basking beneath my scattered light, while I hang above the very shoes I once fled—no longer beneath their tread, yet no less alone. And in that loneliness I remembered the hush of the tide, when the sea held me without asking me to shine.
I had a home once. The ashes of the sea; the remnants of a blithe life I once dared to dream of, though I left the shore in search of it—only to find that my shards are the gentlest graze the world would ever give me.
How did I end up wanting more?