the fish bowl will be broken someday

Tagged by Randell.

Here are the rules of this tag.

1. Delve into your blog archive.

2. Find your 23rd post (or closest to).

3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).

4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions. Ponder it for meaning, subtext or hidden agendas.

5. Tag five people to do the same.

Here's the fifth line of my 23rd post:

"The water was pristine; the falls was splendid"

Water. My favorite element. My world. My life. Even the name of this blog involves a great deal of water. Fish in a Bowl. Water delicately framed by glass to form an artificial world where a fish can be viewed as it swims stupidly around. Although bound and restrained by glass walls, that water is nevertheless pristine. It smells of grass blades that daintily hold dew drops on its edges, swaying with the wind but never letting go of their crystal wards. Diamonds on green knives. It speaks of fruity metaphors trapped in velvet-lined boxes, ready to be opened for adoration. It calls to mind the sanctity of holy water held by stone angels in front of cathedrals, seducing the pious to dip his filthy fingers into it to signal the start of repetitive prayers and agonized wailings as gods in their garish satin and gold vestments idly watch. Absolution or damnation. It mimics the sensuous trickling of sweat beads that navigate the contours of breasts swollen with desire. Lust and love. It is the spit that a child leaves on grandma’s cheek after a long, wet, goodbye kiss. Possibly the last kiss grandma would ever get before she dies. Sweetness and death.

Imagine the water suddenly bursting free from the confines of the bowl and cascading out to freedom. Imagine a thousand fish bowls suddenly giving in to the pressure of the little bodies of water they held prisoners for years. Imagine them all pouring wildly out. Gushing. Roaring. Ravishing anything that blocks their way. An army of fish-bowl waters charging in full speed toward unseen enemies. Powerful. Strong. Torrential. That is my falls. A falls is nothing but an outpouring of a desire to be free. It draws its power from years of shackles and prison bars, of suppressed anger and stunted dreams, of yearnings razed even before it started to blossom. When pristine water finally finds the guts to break its fish bowl, only then can it become a falls, potent and splendid. And it will no longer smell of dew on grass blades or sweat on fiery skin. It will smell of rivers gone berserk and oceans devouring the hapless.

If you found any sense in this shit, consider yourself tagged.