Broken jar of salt peppers

A broken jar of salt peppers. An oversized suitcase of baggage. Melancholic and morbid. When I open my eyes, I would often want to shut them off. I transit from places or people, leaving behind shards. Incapable of drawing a straight line. I would blabber, incoherently or talk in circles when nervous. Those are my walls of glass that I build about my psyche of an adolescent mind. On occasions I would not make sense and on moments of clarity, everything would spring to a stark pattern of objectivity. Time often stops when one stands at a juncture of indecision. Seconds would morph into hours, and I would slow down into an unintelligible silence or would patter on to appear sound. As derelict as transit sounds, what does it entail really? Transit would be the idea of holding back and letting go. Of losing oneself in another. Of patterns and crayons. Transit would be perception and doubts. When I fade from one picture and fuse into another, my losing would be transit for another.