The Crystal















I don’t know if you can see the crystal yet.

On clear nights when your heart has good reception, when you have managed to push aside your illusions, noise, static, your notions that you were not loved–you can begin to decipher the crystal. It will tell you the one and only story, of all things broken through all time and space, never, in fact, broken at all, never betrayed, never lost. It was always one story, it always will be.

You get glimpses of it, but it blinds you and you look away, or stall for time. Gather shrapnel, your junkyard stories that the crowds like to hear. You swear one day you will tell the story of the crystal. If you can just get it to talk to you some more. You need proof.

You have proof.

It seems to be breaking, all the time. It all seems to be breaking, smashing, burning. But on nights when the crystal whispers to you you understand that it is not so.

Nothing that ever seemed smashed, lost, forsaken or betrayed leaves the crystal. It holds everything and restores it.

It’s all there.

Like when you were a child and you saw the snow coming down and knew the secret, and shouted for joy no matter what was behind you in the living room.




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