There once was a being—round, glowing, and whole—
known not just for her delicate form,
but for the light she carried within her shell.
She was called Lumpty,
and she had always been told:
“You were made to rise.”So one day, full of hope and longing,
Lumpty set off on her sacred journey—
not knowing that the very road to her rising
would also bring her to her great fall.
She climbed the wall of her becoming—
step by step,
dream by dream,
rising higher,
reaching further,
longing to meet the light she felt inside.
But the world was not kind to soft things.
And the wall was built on stories she didn’t yet see through.
And one day… the wall gave way.
She fell.
And shattered.
The wind held its breath.
The birds turned their eyes.
No one came to gather her.
No horses. No kings.
Just silence… and shards.
But Lumpty, in her shattered state,
still believed in the journey.
So she tried to keep going.
She wrapped herself in whatever pieces remained,
and limped forward.
“Just move on,” she whispered. “Don’t look back.”
But the further she walked,
the more she leaked.
Her light dimmed.
Her form cracked again and again.
She ached—not just from injury,
but from all the parts of herself she’d left behind.
And finally, in a quiet grove beneath a tree that looked older than time,
she fell to her knees—not from despair,
but from knowing.
“I cannot rise while pieces of me are still lying in the dust.”
“I must go back.”And so, she turned around.
Step by step,
she retraced her journey.
Not to undo it,
but to gather it.
Every shard she’d once called shame—
she picked up with tenderness.
Every piece of rage, of grief, of innocence, of fear—
she kissed into her hands.
And as she gathered each fragment,
something miraculous happened:
The pieces began to glow.
Not because they were perfect,
but because they were loved.
She did not glue herself back into the being she had been.
