Monday, April 12, 2010


I used to love white conch shells. The way they looked, as if God had conjured up the prettiest sand, created a twister to form its shape, and then tapped it with His magic wand to turn it the most brilliant shade of white with sparkling tones of palest pink inside just for me. I was captivated by its beauty. I could have been content to stare at it for hours, literally, when I was 12. It was like a private moment between me and God, kinda like the equivalent of a candlelit picnic dinner.

I didn't even read Lord of the Flies until was 15. I honestly just loved white conch shells. But in the book, the shell symbolized purity, goodness, innocence and humanity.

When I was 16, I think I left childhood. I dealt with things far beyond my maturity level, or even my scope of maturity level. I grappled, really wrestled, with the concept of faith and God. I questioned life.

How fitting that when I turned 17, I felt like I had outgrown the shells. Their beauty was no longer radiant to me, but just another object in life. Don't get me wrong, I still thought they were pretty, but there was no more magic for me.

And now? Now that I am 19, when I look at conch shells, all I can see is a fragmented and distorted image of my reflection.

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