Art, Pen

Empty Jars

We all are born, raised and evolved in different places of this same Earth. With possibly unique overall characteristics. It possibly can be classified under some usual and frequently studied categories, categories which makes lots of our actions predictable. Predictable things usually make most of our daily routine life.

Prediction makes us happy. It’s not like we can tell which side the coin will fall but we can tell what effect it will produce in next person’s mind. And then like falling dominoes, a picture is created. A flowchart of further predictions. Before knocking down the very first domino, we manipulate with some, change their positions for our own benefit.

But sometimes people have vivid and bizarre characteristics. We try to box them in pre-captioned designations, just like we categorize songs based on their genre. But we just can’t. Their multidimensional personality and randomness makes it almost impossible to predict their actions. It fills us with a fear. An obvious truth, that we too, are a part of this predictable herd.

We try to grow, from the cracks of an old rock. We try to vibrate, just like a fly caught in an abandoned spider web. Too weak to break the stone and too tired to try out again.

We stop. We die.

We used to be fluid when we were kids. Could have taken any shape, any size. Then time put us in these tinted jars and left us in the oven of time, for baking. To grow static and solid.

I wonder if I can break my jar.

Before I was Baked

Before I was Baked

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