Here, on this fragile place we call home, we stay. Its walls promise us shelter, warmth, safety. Somewhere to run to when the days go bad, somewhere we can never truly run away from. Because no matter how broken it is: the doors, the windows, the picture frames — they’re all easy to rebuild, replace, restore. As long as that fragile home inside you stays, you’ll always have a place in this world full of empty space.
Here, on this fragile place we call today, we breathe. In this now and present of reality, no matter how unfair or harsh or seemingly cruel it seems, we exist. And that itself should give us a reason to smile: for how many now’s have gone, and how many present’s have passed, and how many today’s continue to slip through the gaps between whiles and daydreams — and still, we breathe and live despite the memories, both good and bad. For each today may be sad, beautiful or simply bland… but it’s a fragile place, so don’t hold on to it too tight.
Here, on this fragile place we call hope, we believe. A cracking voice, whispering, beyond the mist and smoke of our anxieties. Who knows what we hear, but we ourselves — listen! Words are often twisted between the ear and heart before it reaches our minds. But as fragile a place our hopes may be, it can only shatter when we let it fall free.
Here, on this fragile place we call love, we long. To be wanted, to be desired, to be missed, to be held on to. To be embraced for all that we are and can be, and still be embraced when we are not and can no longer be. For what can be more fragile than a love misplaced, when you’re most fragile when your heart’s in the right place?
Here, on this fragile place we call you and me, we wait. Souls peering behind the tear-stained windows and broken glass, with curtains of smiles and laughter and happy thoughts hiding locks and prison bars. We wonder when they’ll knock on the door or simply barge in to rescue us… and if they do, will they be welcome at all — when they step in unannounced and unwanted in this fragile place we call ourselves?
Here, on this fragile place I call time, I’m alone. The hand’s moving slower, and so does the trickling of the sands. Soon, the hourglass will break. Soon, the clock will simply lose track of time — and broken, the ticking will stop. The trickling will stop. And all that will remain is the crackling sound of the glass crushed under footsteps rushing too late. Until I’m left behind and forgotten here on this fragile place called time.