The Shattering of One's Spirit

Just a writing I did after a difficult time in my life. This is SO hard to share. I still after all these years can't read it without losing my composer.

 

 

The Shattering of One's Spirit

 

 

            There is a certain deafening silence that comes along with the shattering of one's spirit. Like a mirror's crash and then the majestic tinkling of millions of tiny fragments coming to rest, each reflecting different perspectives of a false reality. A spider web of chaos strewn about, only a forensic mind could make sense of what had really happened, but never having the ability to fully reconstruct the reflecting liar.

            One's spirit is similar to a mirror in the sense that it can reflect onto others, it speaks more to the individual gazing upon it, and that it is inherently fragile and can be easily shattered into fragments. In doing so, like the mirror, one's spirit can never be fully restored to its previous incarnation. Also, like the mirror, the edges of a shattered spirit take on their own individual identities, separating themselves from a past union. These fragments are razor sharp and will almost painlessly cut if not handled with care.

            The owner of a shattered spirit must take great care not to bleed themselves as they try to piece themselves back together. As said before, this process can never end in the complete reincarnation of the original individual. Instead, the pieces often resemble an imperfect representation of the web of life. In a sense it is a work of art, the quality determined by the patience, understanding and care taken by the vessel of the shattered spirit.

            Pieces of the original are always lost in the process, resulting in gaps of the whole and defined borders begin to fray. This is intensified as stubborn shards, not wanting to find their place within the conglomerate or matrix, defy gravity and hang just beyond the borders, twinkling and reflecting other perspectives.

            One who has had their spirit shattered often, throughout the process of life typically can relate to a myriad of different individuals because their spirit cannot be clearly defined. They reflect billions of different perspectives. Their boundaries are ill-defined and cannot be put into a simple category as is the nature of mass human consciousness. They have become masters or artisans of picking themselves back up, recreating themselves and emulate a mosaic or even a stippled masterpiece: a fractal-linear work of art that from a distance appears to be one thing, but upon closer inspection is another and even being able to find its origination infinitely inward as well as outwardly. They tend to understand much of the exterior world as they have become masters of reflection and transmutation as they have begun to inherently lose their specific identity. They have even been granted the gift of resiliency as now they are a conglomerate of billions of tiny perspectives each harder to break as these perspectives dwindle in size. They have also been given the gift of reconfiguration as each piece no longer has a set position or home. Their only curse is that it becomes more and more difficult to define themselves and they experience intense pain and confusion when they try to gaze upon the reflection of their own selves. 

            This can explain the difference between an adult and a child. A child can reflect almost to precision what lay before them and are masters of mimicry, for most children have yet to experience the deafening silence of a shattered spirit. This speaks to the purity of a child as is mentioned in many tales, like the archetypal “Peter Pan”, as well as others relating the child's ability to perceive things that an adult cannot. Another thing that makes one's spirit different from that of a mirror is that a mirror can only reflect and one's spirit can absorb as well as reflect. It becomes more and more difficult as we become more and more fragmented. A child has one source and is able to consume much of their surroundings, downloading and storing information at a rate that the best computer pales in comparison. An adult ends up having several, if not millions of sources and bottle necks the pipeline and learning tends to slow, often to a crawl and requires intended concentration.

            I have once again heard the deafening silence and my granted resiliency could not shield me from this multifaceted onslaught of this campaign against my heart... my spirit. I cannot understand why “Spirit” would wish me to experience this level of pain again. I can only concede that it has the best intentions at heart. That once again, I am a student and have much to learn.

            That being said, I was attentive. I saw it all happening, I saw the storm brewing in the distance. I just was not prepared... how could I be? The first wave was that of insecurity, specifically dealing with matters of the heart. There was a screaming silence and a gestation of nervous energy, fear, frustration and even rage, like reflecting the storm I knew was brewing in the distance. I responded by opening myself up instead of guarding myself, as was my initial determination, standing arms outstretched and face to the heavens, unguarded to the monsoon about to happen. I let my heart speak for me, uninhibited and uncensored. Defenses down, I awaited the premonition of truth. In essence, I released my spirit, for the spirit dwells deep within the heart of the individual as well as everything else... “the heart of the matter”. I cast myself out, extended myself, like a fisherman casting his line and with feet up and hat down, his finger caressing the line, awaiting his response. There was only silence. The line never communicated fully with conviction. Then the day was done and the line was bare. Again and again the fisherman set out to attain what he was looking for and day after day he returned empty handed and unsure. Then one day, the fish told him that his efforts were pointless for they would never again play this game with him... that he would never again be able to experience that which he loved. Tired and broken, the ex-fisherman returned to the relatively new existence only to find that his best friend, one who truly loves him unconditionally is suffering. She cannot breath. She is drowning in her own blood and it falls on him to be the guide to walk her into something other than this physical existence.

            There was a communion of tortured spirits; one by the present and one by what was about to come to fruition. A conversation occurred. The unconditional friend did not understand as she was granted a great gift of only understanding the present, but her friend was cursed with the understanding of the future and the understandable mandate issued to him by powers he was honor-bound to. His unconditional friend exhibited her discord as she rubbed her sores against his leg, still wanting to show affection but at the same time expressing her discomfort. His tears fell and he shook without control and she was confused. Her incessant rubbing ceased as she smelled the salty ocular precipitation. She cocked her head to the side as her favored playmate became extremely flushed could not hold the floodgates at bay. She gave a kiss and asked if it was time to go as she nosed the exit door, looking over her shoulder... panting hard. A bandage on her right paw showed a connection point as she had already been prepared for her journey. It was pink against her black feathered coat. She gazed as if she was ready to leave. As if she was scared, like she wanted to she her mother.

            “Take me home to see my mother, my beloved playmate. I am scared. I am at loss for breath and I want to see my mother” she said with her eyes as she nosed the door.

            The ex-fisherman became a merchant of death, clad in black and his long hair hiding his emotion, he put a blue leash back around her neck and popped his head out the door, signaling that it was time. The angel of death did not take long to respond and very softly asked the feathered friend to lay upon the cold floor. The ex-fisherman's friend gave him a kiss, still not understanding what lay before her and then quickly lay her head in his hands as the bite of death began to consume her. Her breathing suddenly stopped and her eyes lost their sparkle. Her unconditional friend truly lost himself with her passing. She gasped a couple times and he waited until he was sure that the brain was dead, not wanting her last image to be her best friend leaving her when she was afraid and needing him.

            My shattered spirit now resembles that of a galaxy; billions upon billions of fragmented stars encircling a central core, except that my core shines no longer and is more like that of a powerful singularity. Much of myself revolves around the gravitational pull of my powerful center but nothing can escape it. It is now so powerful that it can even bend light, even consume it and will consume anything thoughtless enough to get too close, compacting it into something smaller that this period.

Author's Note

A very difficult time of my life. Please don't hold back because of such emotion. I only respect center line. thanks.