Rebuilding the man
Slowly he breaks down, carefully deconstructed. The sum of these parts he is not, nor is he whole without them. He is apart and incomplete, still searching for something unknown and out of reach. He is content and sated for now, happy with what he has, disillusionment hovering out of sight.
Childlike he studies each piece, wonder creases his face as he tumbles the shapes between his fingers, marvelling at curves and crevices, skin catching on ripped edges. Gently he places them back down, carefully, orderly and correct.
Each piece tells a story, some laugh merrily, others are inconsolable behind heaves and sobs. Some shriek and wail, others tra-la-la to an unknown tune with a familiar chorus. Some lie dormant as their time has passed, yet their role does not diminish. The naked structure gapes and glares, absorbing them all.
The pieces shimmer and shake, languid in their motion, certain in their reason, and knowing they too will return to their rightful place. None will be left behind, none will float away on the tide of change, they will be reborne and reconsidered, polished and primed.
His thoughts turn elsewhere, the light bends, dazzling and brilliant, and the newest pieces of him are borne, joining the other pieces before him, sliding into place as if they’ve been there all along. Happy and content he can rebuild.
He turns his thoughts to the task at hand and the air crackles as the energy builds. One by one, the pieces start their journey, each is paused for a second, a final inspection, a last glimpse of the separation and purpose, before once again being consumed. The structure slowly fills, orderly and considered, the new jostling with the old.
Some time later he sits on the bed. Quietly contemplative of himself. Each part of him nestles in place, content and happy, complete.