Chip, chip

Chip, chip, the sounds of a persons dream dying, fading into dispare. For what is a chip, but a slice of life that has fallen from grace and the tile intact is no more. To be sucked up into the heavens that is the vacum cleaner, a metaphore for Death himself. A bang of the hammer sends the tile into bits, bits thrown and wanted no more. Bits that had as a whole served the house without question, and yet in the blink of an eye its purpose is no more. For in shards it receives no reward, just the trashcan that awaits us all in either coffin or can. Lighting slivers of tile litter the floor. Years have passed, feet have crossed, water, tears have fallen in to the history of it making. But, no more. Now it is time for it to return to the land and await its next incarnation. Waiting in the next room to replace the old, the new. The old tile hangs on with grim determination. A chip weakens the whole. The new waits. and yet the old now waits only the hammer to fall. To destroy its whole and to pass it unto the history of the land that is called out of date, out of fashion. A though, perhaps. Empathy, said the tile. Chip, said the hammer and together they joined and parted.

(RLP)