Today, I was walking around my college campus
and on my way to the library I realized I was stepping
on some kind of yellow colored glass that was
completley shattered all over the floor.
I maneuvered my way around making sure
not to step in anything, in order not to hurt myself.
While I was walking I realized I was the "only"
person to walk through that specific path
to get to the library.
Ironically enough, I'd be the one who'd pass
through the shattered glass on the floor perfectly
describing how I've been feeling the past couple of days.
Then I began to question myself. Am I the shattered
glass that was spread all over the floor? And if so
how in the world do I pick up the pieces and
desperately put them back together.
Maybe I'm meant to be shattered?
Isn't perfection overrated anyways?
Those pieces on the floor were
art in my eyes. They weren't shattered
pieces. Maybe I'm just shattered art.
Shattered art I am? If so, then so be it.