The human heart was fragile; the soul more so. It seems everyone was broken in some way. There were no people around me. There were just broken shells, frantically looking for pieces to complete themselves or for a reason behind their cracks.
Some hid their chipped paint by coating over their decaying colour. Some borrowed pieces from others leaving them incomplete instead. Some gave up, altogether.
It was a shitshow of ceramic clay dolls, all broken, all falling apart, walking about like creepy marionettes in a play without a script. Their threads intertwining and taking some others down as collateral damage. What mismanagement!
Everybody improvised, everybody was in on it, and no one talked about it.
There was no audience. It was all too deplorable and exhausting to watch. Sometimes, some of them found pieces that fit perfectly all on their own. Those were the lucky ones: the ones who didn’t destroy others to complete themselves. That rarely happened, though.
On a normal day, all of them were snapped, broken, fragmented. They still went on though, finding pieces. I’d just stand in the corner most of the time. I had a few pieces left in me but a lot of me was broken too. I had no interest left in finding any. Not anymore.
Now, I preferred watching instead. I’d just look at them all, going about their business, shard for shard, heart for heart. There were so many broken people in the world, you couldn’t stop counting, and they all made it, eventually. I could make it too, I thought. I just didn’t know how.
What a shitshow.