The Crack

Heaped in an equally dainty platter, one of your egg cracks. A basket of your musings and schemes, each one composing a recherché selection of how you present yourself to the world. And here it sits atop, an Alice blue shell container of you, fractured. 

And what comes oozing out? Is what you contain within yourself a mirror of your fair presentation? Or are you cocooned inside a sticky suspension, the crack revealing a piercing chasm? A slitting of hidden thoughts, expressions, and judgements you can't swim through. 

And are you surprised of what has been harbouring beneath the neat shell? Or had you been sitting on its warming familiarity, secretly bearing a darker you on a nest of entangled thoughts? 

A hatching or a hitting fall, an egg inevitably cracks. And either/or, out of it comes a birth of another you. The yolk may have split—it's no perfect presentation. This is for you to digest what you've been incubating and become whole again with your parts. Then turn to dust your broken shell and bury it into new fertile ground to walk upon.

Is what you contain within yourself a mirror of your fair presentation?