Are we born of sand, scooped from the desert, a tiny, fortunate fraction of the drifting mass?
When molten, so hot we are untouchable, are we blown into shape by the passing wind of change in whichever direction it might be whispering?
Once formed are we convinced of the purity of our beauty, our miraculous incarnation?
Are we in awe of our strength and resilience, yet cold and unyielding to the touch?
Do we create the prisms in which we live and work, mirroring only the beauty we see in ourselves in shaping the world all about us?
Do we become refractions of our primary selves, flat, polished, splitting the light that pours out of us?
When others look upon us do we bend and distort the reality beyond, slanting and warping to the naked eye?
When dropped are we so brittle that we shatter along our fault lines into shards on which those who seek to rescue us – however delicately they tried to handle us – cannot help but cut themselves?
Proud yet vulnerable, clear yet distorting, strong yet imperfect – are we just a bunch of glass souls?