wounds

there is only one nostalgia of childhood. and it is this. that the bullet can hit you but it’ll feel missed. only realizing what happened. twenty years later. and that’s the thing about growing up. you feel the pain as quick as it comes. and that’s the pain of living. to feel. to be shot. to be broken.
there was an artist who created a statue of woman. sitting in meditation. broken. on purpose. cracks through her arms. through the center of her forehead. the artist placed the statue on top of a lightbulb. the light shined through her every crack.
there’s a quote by the Persian poet Rumi. he says, the wound is the place where the light enters you.
but i wonder if it is there. the wound. i wonder if that too, is the place where the light escapes you.

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