When you
crack open the
shell and
see the gooey innards,
there’s
often an instinct to be
repelled and
choke back the vomit.
That shell,
crafted so delicately by
nurturing
nature, or natural nurture,
is filled
with the horrors and odd
delights of
history, evolution and growth.
The shell is
a rainbow of colors,
organized
through layers of time,
chemical compositions
and a symphony
of complex
microscopic organization.
The inside
is goo. Viscous goo.
Slopping and
sloshing around in the
evolutionary
marvel that is its
container.
The goo has
its purpose. It’s there to
fill a need.
It’s not there as an accident,
it got their
honestly. Despite the terrible
odor and the
grayish blood color.
The shell
survives each ordeal,
slapped,
kicked, chipped, worn,
abused by
elements and time,
a beautiful
shield for the curiosity inside.
A curiosity,
beating with fervent life,
crafted to
be exactly what it is though
the
struggles of whatever time had
hurled at
the outside shell.
The insides
aren’t always pretty,
sometimes it
takes a while to
see the
beauty, the effort and power
it took to
be exactly what it is.
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