Broken Bricks

  THUD.

I place down another brick, my fingers repositioning around the handle and I swing down to the ground again.

  THUD.

The hammer claims another victim in shattered and crumbled ruin, chunks and dust flying some distance from the point of impact.

  THUD, CRACK.

Crumbling pieces and the force of a hammer-clad swing of my arms, my back arching and shoulders aching with the pent aggression now slowly relieving.

  THUD, CRACK.

People, things, circumstances; stresses never to be spoken within the presence of the causes, knowing how strong words have no sympathy for fragile ears.

  THUD,  C  R  A  C  K.

I stop and breathe, regarding the broken pieces of bricks before my feet in quiet reflection.

  Thud…

I turn my eyes heavenward with weariness, silently thanking God that bricks do not cry when I break them apart; because I know that I could never speak aloud the things that have pushed me to this destruction.

And for each day that follows, I will be thankful that bricks do not shed tears nor speak nor judge my aggression towards them.

After all, in the end, I am no less broken than they…