Bibelot was, so his name implies, a delicate and rare little creature. Of course, where there is disruption in any steady stream, be it a subtle ripple or tremendous surge, there are always consequences. It is known well that consequence favors no sides; it is wholly dependent upon what shapes it, and when undeservedly arduous, consequence hinders life. Such was the misfortune of that Bibelot, for although he had caught faint sparks of merriment in the whispers of passing winds, he, riddled with uncertainty, peculiarity, and doubt, had not the opportunity to share a single one. Suffering his curious ways alone, Bibelot knew this: joy is bittersweet when it keeps with grief. All of the grumbling within him waxed his innate fears of rejection to harrowing severity. So, stuck in this calamity, he did no so much live, as meander.

Even with such inborn conflict, one must wonder: hadn't there ever been contentment before those eyes fell dim? Had those movements ever felt graceful before the cruel reflections? Surely no hatchling, when breathing in the world for the first time, could expel a sigh of keen displeasure at the benevolent faces of the clouds. That very moment seems infinite in a new life, as it is the grand introduction, the first notion of life, and all that is known thus far. The air is the purest they will ever inhale, cool, and sweet. There are no burdens to besmirch the fragile structure; the world is vast and bright, but perhaps most important, the world is welcoming. In truth, that moment is fleeting, as Tabula rasa gives way to the weight of impressions hidden and scattered about. In Bibelot, the impressions denied him the very basic sense of value. When his demeanor and movements, sullied by an awkward uneasiness, became too heavy, caution prevailed as a means to recede. Caution, that insidious pest, allows for fear to sustain where logic is overthrown. Thus Bibelot remained wounded instead of healed.

Perched in his nest, Bibelot slumped, exhausted 'neath sprigs of rejection and resignation. Alone, just as he had closed so many days, he peered out from under weary eyelids at the world he was ever discouraged by. Now though, instead of buzzes and swirls in the wind, he caught nothing. There was only him in his body, the only thing he ever had. The body that he had rejected and abandoned everyday upon awaking. Now that body took its cue, it had lost the fight, as there is hardly anything more stubborn than sincere despair. The beats of his faltering heart lent a metronome, weak and unsteady, for his lungs to collapse and expand. Breaths tumbled out in soft wheezes until the eternal slumber took hold. It was his humble defeat.

His death revealed the full gamut of the tragedy for it was not until his skin began to wither, that it exposed what had been there all along, what he had missed: Paragon Pearls. Bibelot never knew his significance as his hesitations never allowed him, or anyone else, to properly appreciate him. His pearls were his gifts, they formed from an irritant of Potential, and if it had been carefully cultivated, the pearls would have emerged during life, rather than seep out in death. Fear, then, kept the pearls buried beneath, unbeknownst to him and his world. Both then, suffered in ignorance, as Life suffers where Life cannot grow. And a life is forgotten when it has not been embraced and shaped or, found. It is a miserable sort of crime for a life with such offerings to be muted by clumsy uncertainty. That potential remains now, like a shadow cast upon a stain abating into transparency. Let our insight to this misadventure be the persistence behind the ticking of our own metronomes for there is just one way to insult the ill-fated life of Bibelot, and that is to repeat it.