I just blurted this out, no editing, no pauses. I just wrote. I was feeling so bad these days and so doubtful and I don't know who I am but I just felt the need to post this somewhere that would be seen
A boy was pondering his orb and in the orb he could see all and all could see him. He could travel the stars or roam the lands, navigate the seas and burrow in the earth; in all those places he found many little figures, an ant or a bird or a man. All of them had a thought and all of them spoke. Some of them weren't even real, just a mirage from a mirror that stole the light from what was reflected, and yet even those would speak to the boy. And the boy listened and listened and listened more, and his head would grow larger larger yet larger but could not ever explode.
For you see, the boy's head was hard as steel, and he wanted nothing more to crack it open, and see what was inside.
The pressure kept building, his temples throbbing with pain. It was a grotesque sight, a blasphemous pregnancy, and yet he ate and saw and heard and touched and smelled everything he could from his little glass orb. The orb was a mirror too, and while it fed the boy the visions, it robbed him of his soul.
But that soul was infinite, and was about to erupt.
The orb fell, the boy too. The head cracked.
Among the debris of sloppy visions a flower rose, it blossomed, and grew. The most radiant girl came out, and the orb tried to charm her too, but she was just born, and sought the sun. She walked out, seeking her light and the orb, was no more.
