Day Twelve

You build it so carefully. It was strong and heavy. It took patience to match all the elements. There are not even.
If you removed one, everything could collapse.
Can you replace what was moved?
Will it still have the same form?
If you fill the gap with the same thing will it still be the same or would it change the whole form?
Can you do it?
Or it will still be visible that something is wrong?
Can you find there a place for you or is it not yours anymore?
Do you hold on to the removed element or you let it fall and you live it like it is, or you build it up again?
Are you trying to make it more safe, more predictable, or you throw with no concept?
Do you pace your self differently, do you fill the weight of every element, and can you see the whole picture?
Will you know next time where to stop it from falling?
Will you know if something breaks where to hold it?
Do you have to change to make it your own again?
Will it help if you would change?
Or maybe this part of you was so important that nothing could replace it?

The sense pushes you to an opposite direction. Half of you is still with what you’ve left behind. You get tired, you feel like drifting. One pull and you’re there, back where you started and you take the weight. You still trying to move, you can’t, you let go, you here with your back him falling, you are living, slowly the distance between you increases. You stand, hold your self in a form, put some more layers on you, some more talk on your face, and cover the inside you’ve had. Wait, don’t let the form fall apart. Don’t move.

Aurora