Still, let me ask: How deep is the puddle if you never step in it? The splash of another soils you. And you, never having stepped in, are discolored in the carelessness of flung exposure. Their splash stalks you in wet realization. Messiness introduces you to you. Surprise winks in amusement.
Who can say. Who cares.
Puddle doesn't care about splash, except that it steals a bit of what could have been. Splash only cares for attention. So, we lose ourselves in temporary counter strike mode. Un-hesitant to consider the puddle.
When you are splashed, jump in the puddle. Beg it to consume. Know the stains will gawk. Don't mind being sold something in yourself. You can wipe the splash. But why. Let it mark your face, your pride, your fabrics. Let it settle, in your hair, in your ears, at the tip of your tongue.
Hesitate - at least - for the onset of these things. Hurriedly, jump in the puddle.
Anticipate yourself, remembering your beauty the whole while. In all this mixed emotion, emotion ducks, calmly awaiting frustration. You know it's coming. Prepare. Prepare to be spit in the face, wipe it away in the dignity of a crisp, initialed hankie, and begin humming meditatives.
This is the fiber of splash - you getting in the way of yourself v. you stepping aside of yourself. Splash is the split instance when you think 'oh.'
And, we all know oh has countless tangents.
All subjective. Sometimes five shots to the head is a blessing. Whether left dead v. left on a long, multi-layered path to recovery. Equally, sometimes the birth of a healthy child is a disaster. A lover in the love of a stranger is no less subjective than discovering incestuous heritage.
This is puddle.
These are the creation of diaries. The emotions in untitled poems. Explanation fleshing acknowledgement, revelation, and reservation. Splash is inconsequential, outside of its landing.
Despite how it slaps us, there is always a bigger issue.
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