The unspeakable visions of the individual are often minute and insignificant. I focus upon my right hand as I write.

The nails on my fingers are broken and scratched, uncut because this morning while I was in the shower I could not see them in the cloud of steam. I was careful to care for my hands, push down the cuticle like my mother always taught. But without my glasses and with wet fingers the loose ends of this hand, the one gripping the pencil, remained unseen. Unnoticed, and now blatantly uncut. Nevertheless, they were there. They are truth.

Now, while in the position to contemplate the ends or beginnings of the world, I am stuck meditating on my broken nails. What do they signify? Etched in hardened tissue they are reminders of my lack of control. All that I hoped for today, and if today then perhaps forever, was some control over myself. I want to tame the loose and lazy. Present the world with practical and polished. Well manicured nails represent the self I plan to be.

However, I suppose broken nails represent the self I am. They tell the story of my natural body, my normal habits. They become the truth of all. Unspeakable visions made flesh.

I see myself as what I can be–manicured nails and a storybook life. But it is not good to dwell in dreams. I come to terms with this by scratching the pencil across the page. When still, my mind and thoughts are glorious…profound. When I set them down on paper they are merely truth. Chicken-scratch printing with passive voice and split infinitives. Perhaps when read by another they seem hurried. Unfinished. But to me, they tell a story.

My broken nails are my glory.