The world is broken. No, not broken. Shattered. Shattered into billions of tiny, cracked pieces. It is thrown to the ground, a perfect, round glass globe. The curved pieces shoot away and scatter. Abandoning each other and their Maker. We drop the world and let it shatter. And we’re okay with that. Why? Why are we okay with living on shards? Shards are sharp, they hurt when you step on them. And we tread on them blindly, our hands tied so that we cannot catch ourselves when we trip. We land on our faces, cutting ourselves open, bleeding on the billions of gleaming shards. Now the shards are stained red, scarlet fragments of what was once a clean, shining round globe. And we try to put the pieces back together, but it is impossible. We could not do it even if we could see. And we cannot see. Seeing is a privilege we have lost. We cannot get it back. Forever we will be stuck like this, blindfolded, hands tied, tripping on glass.

But someone, someone with free hands and seeing eyes, picks up the some of the shards. He plunges them into himself and dies. His blood is golden. It is not red, nor crimson, nor scarlet, nor any of the colors we live in. It is golden, and as it seeps across the glass, the shards are cleaned, drenched in the blood. We run from the blood. We fear the clean, for we are dirty, and that is all we know. We hide, shadows in the crevices, the corners, the ditches. Here we are safe from the blood, from the blinding light that is trying to burn out our eyes. We seek the darkness, for that is what we know, what we live in, what will disguise our deformities. The light would expose them, show us what we really are. In the darkness we can pretend to be whole and well, we can hide our nastiness, muffle our coughs in the clattering uproar, the pandemonium, the racket, the din, the grating clatter, the rattling buzz.

The someone has died, but some claim he is back, that he wrestled with Death and overcame the monster. We do not believe them. We would rather wallow in the darkness, in our misery and shame, than believe such a thing. We would rather taste pain, death, than accept such a preposterous idea as that. Than accept the one who let his blood flow for our benefit. Who took what he had made and let it kill him, just so that pathetic, deformed creatures like us could become whole again. We scorn him. We should thank him, but we spit on him and bellow furiously, as though it is the fault of the one who could save us that we roll in our horror. We are twisted, deformed, depraved, horrid things, yet we shove away the offer to be whole again. We want to be what we once were, yet for some inexplicable reason we search for other choices, other opportunities to get beauty and perfection back. We would rather wait it out, hungering for light, but lingering in darkness, refusing the offer of light, refusing the bread that is held out to relieve our hunger, free of charge. We are creatures of nonsense. If only we could see ourselves, we would not linger in this darkness. We would rush to the light. But we do not. We will not. So here we are, a dark and lonely race with nothing to lose and everything to gain. A silent, still race that is content here in misery.