• Anna May


Imagine this: your skin is glass. In fact, all of you is glass. Hold that picture in your mind. I don’t mind if you’re an ornament shaped as a bird and resting on a coffee table, or an old Coca Cola bottle left to entertain the daisies of a derelict park. Or perhaps it’s best to imagine yourself as a thin sheet - let’s say a window - balanced between frames or floating somewhere in mid-air. Yes, that's it. You are a sheet of glass, floating and quite content. Until someone – no, no one throws it, it just arrives. Out of nothing. From nowhere. With no force behind it (not one that I can understand anyway). A stone hurtles right into your centre. I would normally say ‘right to your heart’, but you don’t have a heart because you’re glass, remember. The impact of this stone reverberates throughout your whole being. The cracks appear in a split second, intricate arms of a spiders web reaching out from this point in time. You are yet to collapse into a thousand shards, but you feel it is inevitable. It is this moment, the held breath before the shattering, that you exist. And you’re not glass anymore, you're human, and you have things to do and places to be and people to hold yourself up to. You’re not glass anymore, you are human.