Why is it that the things we want to last the most don’t, and the things we want gone stay there forever?
The most special moments look like marble, but are built from dirt. Every detail has been carefully thought out, sculpted and molded by my hands. In the end, you think I’ve crafted a diamond, but my heated sand shatters at your touch.
My life’s ambition destroyed by one person.
But I never give up. I sit in my workshop, tirelessly rebuilding my creation, never resting. All to have it crumble when I’m done.
I tried to use carbon to make something beautiful, but I always ended up with coal. How can one element be used to make two vastly different things? And why do my hands only ever make things that burn in fire?
Everything I like dissapears. Every penny of my income is spent. Every person I get close to, leaves.
Rage turns my haven into ashes.
And licks around the edges of your stone.
The stone that traps me, mocks me, and destroys me. The statues of people that are made of rock never leave. They breathe down my neck, crudely carved by your hands.
And yet, your horrific creations still last. Still survive my touch, my temper. My fire.
From reconstructing my life over and over again, I’ve learned one thing.
A diamond made of glass breaks, but a heart made of stone doesn’t.
Maybe the only way to keep my asylum from burning is to let your heart have mine. Even though you’ll think you own it. Even though you’ll rip it out of my chest, and pretend it was meant to be that way. Even though you’ll appoligize without meaning a word, and move on, acting like nothing ever happened. Even though you won’t see the tears in my eyes, or the ashen city surrounding me.
Even though you don’t need or want me as much as I do you.
But because your heart is stone, it will cool my flame. And maybe then I can finally build something that won’t collapse right away.
The Splintered Pencil 