In a world of catch phrases, cliche, or just plain-old infinite wisdom of the generations that precede us; I find myself living (and slowly dying) in that infamous adage-- 'walking on eggs'.
Who the heck made up that one anyway? You cannot walk on eggs...not even the hard-boiled ones. You'd roll right off them suckers and break your neck.
Yet this is where I've found my feet-- as of late. I walked on those eggs until the shells slashed them wide open.. gushing enough emotional blood to render me incapable of walking altogether.
So here I sit; feet off the floor, in my guilt-padded / shell-armored, wheelchair. I'm going to try to roll over these deceptively-fragile eggs now....no more bloody feet for me.
Ahhh, but I forget about those flowing salty tears, that rust up the bearings on my wheels.
Now I am stuck; frozen in a chair with a plethora of razor-like remains under my rusted shell-crusher. I dare not get up; the wounds have not healed and I will bleed once more. Maybe this is my fate. I could not have asked for a more pitiful demise.
Dying at the hands of what a chicken popped out of its ass.