there is a room that exists.
It is a small room hidden at the back of the museum visited by hundreds; thousands even. Little know about that room, much less have stepped in.
I know that room. Dusty jars labelled by years and months are scattered across the small space. The echoes of the empty jars still ring loud. They can no longer be filled, but I don’t know how to break them. The lonely vessels only serve as a painful reminder of what I never did get.
It is time to clean the shelves, break the jars and get new ones. Yet, I am held back by the fear that the new jars will only remain hollow till the day I need to run a hammer through the glass again.