a fiction

I have a story. I don't know if it's true. 

In some cultures, when one has had a truly fine meal or an exquisite drink, you finish your delightful food or beverage and then  you break the dish on the ground; the dish has served its highest purpose, it will never again hold anything so perfect as the thing you just tasted, so it is best for it to die at the pinnacle of its experience.

I don't know why people break dishes, really.

And I want to say something about how and why people get broken as some kind of analogy to this, but I can't make it work.

I am crying for no reason.

Am I the broken dish? 

what was the pinnacle?

And why can't I remember it? 

Maybe no broken pieces remember the glory they once held, and the memory is only for the one that broke the vessel.