i love broken glass

broken glass is to me always more interesting than the vase from which it came. the colors and edges are always eye-catching and enticing. the whole vase only entices me to pick it up and throw it and listen to its crash as it becomes a million interesting pieces.

i want a new puppy. stella was suicidal. she left when i did. but she and i were perfect together, i wish i could have told her to stay, because we made a good team, her with her broken glass and me with mine.

i don't like boys that have their glass in tact... it makes me either want to pick it up and smash it or walk away... i much prefer to listen to the tingling of shards on shards and feel the jagged edges of a puzzle that is impossible to put together... and if somehow it gets put together... i generally run away from it. those things belong in a museum for the uninteresting, not on my bookshelf.

what is my fascination with the absurd, the broken, shattered? i dunno, i suppose i see a depth there that is nonexistent in the perfectly put together--it doesn't get boring or old... every time you look, the light diffracts differently. the colors are different, the pieces put together differently and show a different story, the pieces are different in themselves...

not that they are harsh or cold, because i find the museum piece far more unwelcoming than broken glass.