my affinity for snowglobes had left me with a strong desire to create one of my own. After obtaining all the proper materials, mostly gifted to me, I set out to create one of my dreascapes with my hands to preserve, like so many of my tragic dreams and beloved memories encased in swirling snow, untouchable and unchanged.
for the next week i spent hours upon hours pouring myself tedious and passionately over the various tasks and steps necessaryin order to complete the miniature structure. one night was dedicated to scupting the tree, the criss-cross'd arrows, spiral staircase nowhere place, where i grieve my fate and admire the grandeur of the underworld with my persuasive pumpkin friends. the next day, 6 hours of my life were devoted to the painting of the figurine. i lovingly labored over each root, each jack-o-lantern face, the colors of my guitar leaning up against the dead gray life of my lovely stair-tree. in this way it continued for days until my miniature unimportant dark illustration was realized. it was sealed, shiny, and snowed-on before it was thrust into (I thought, the certainty and somewhat permanence of) the water and glass and glitter and glycerine. Upon its completion I reveled in my accomplishment for only a moment before i began to clean the outside of the globe from the sealant glue i used to prevent leakage from it. it slipped from my wet hands almost immediately and cracked in a moment on the countertop.
my trying to prevent the accident left me with a bloody piece of glass embedded in my right hand and other tiny shards strewn about my workspace. i pulled the glass out as my heart sank, it seemed a sign to me that i shouldn't try to preserve anything, cause shit doesn't work like that.
the blood reminded me that if you try to kick through a fuckin window, you're gonna get cut.