I have this theory that the universe is a giant machine.
Everyone has a purpose in this machine, too. Some of us keep the machine running smoothly- the politicians and the world leaders who help to keep the peace. Some of us power the machine- the mothers, the teachers, the police officers and the firefighters. Some of us make the machine better- the poets and the authors and the artists and the lovers.
The rest of us simply give the machine little nudges and pushes when it slows or starts to break, starts to rust, or starts to grind to a stop. We are the gears of the machine, to each our own.
And each gear is complex: some are older, some are brighter, some are dull, some are sharp, some are smooth.
You get the point.
And right now, if you look at the machine, you'll find see a small gear. Nothing very special about it. Depending on the day, it might have rose vine drawings on it. Some days it might just be plain, a dull colour. Some days it might be bright, standing out from the others.
But always, it has a crack. A crack that gets bigger and bigger every single day. A crack that threatens to split the gear in half, and shatter in to millions of tiny, irreparable pieces.
And that little, insignificant gear?
Me. A sixteen-year-old boy with blond hair and shade-changing blue eyes. A face that could be considered handsome if I would put in the effort. Black jeans, embroidered with roses, apple-patterned High-Top Converses, bigger hoodies to hide in. A Supernatural backpack covered in pins- Voltron, My Chemical Romance, Doctor Who. Things like that.
If you look at my hands, you'll often find very carefully drawn designs like bones, vines, flowers, even planets.
But lately it's been different- a design that makes my skin look like it's cracking. It reflects how I feel on the inside. Broken, breaking.
Because my body is breaking down, slowly. Stress and anxiety are taking their toll. My long hours of pointe are killing my feet and my legs. The bruises hidden by the sleeves of the hoodie from an angry father.
And the secret I keep burning in my chest, threatening to spill over at any minute, combined with everything else, threatens to crack me open from the inside and shatter me.
And then that little, insignificant gear will fall apart and a new one will take it's place.
And no one will ever know why that little gear cracked.
[Aaaah! Guys, I'm so excited I finally started this! I've been meaning to but I'm hella lazy. So sit tight guys, gals, and non-binary pals. The story is just beginning. XOXO.]