...

I look at the glass, broken, and in a million shards if it where to fall. I stare at the point where the damage began, and from there a web of tension, at which the shards form a pattern and should have fallen.

However, it stands, and remains as one. I wish to see it fall, but I know it won't. It will wait to fall until I leave and not there to witness. It knows my desires, and perhaps it may be best to let go.

So, as it remains in its place I conjure another desire. I want to touch it. Not break it, but feel it. It needs to break on its own, but I feel that it needs to know I'm here.

I feel at times that the glass can look a lot like ice. Perhaps that is why I lack the ability to reach out at it. If only I could muster up the courage, for there would be no greater pleasure than to rub my hands, and feel every shard cut me and see my hand bleed.

And yet, I remain passive, and only imagine. So I see the blood drip down in my mind. If only I could see it for real. I could walk up, lift my hand, and it wouldn't even have to take much effort. Although, it seems to take the most effort of all.

So, I still remain infront of the glass. Or perhaps I am behind the glass. Whichever way I stand to it, I keep imagining the blood, and the feel of the shards. The pain only occurs realizing that I have done nothing.

...