— Zora Neale Hurston (via observando)
In my hand is a pure crystal goblet, molded by my bare hands. Designed by me, the engravings, the studding – everything. It’s custom ME. Yet I find myself walking to the back of my closet and reaching up to the top shelf. I find myself reaching up for my old tumbler. It’s covered in dust. It has a few cracks and a bit of mold.
Consciously I believe I just want to drink from it once in a while, for old times sake. But in my heart of hearts I have this inherent hope of fixing it, and having it as my cup for now and forever. I mean, it’s been on this shelf for so long, it’s never been stolen nor has it broken. Surely it wants to be in my possession too. Right?
The epiphany about running in between…what was it? What was the dream…
Running in between, ecstasy and immense sadness?
Because that’s what happens with the old dusty tumbler. You pour some Jooce [your favourite] and a bunch more and God Himself can’t say you’re not in heaven. Next thing it’s on the floor. And your world is near-shattered. So you leave it for a while, put it back up. Give it time hoping it will magically fix itself. Undo the new crack…
But you’re racing towards grief. And it starts all over again.
The cycle needs breaking.