I’ve read somewhere that the Japanese fix bowls with gold, resulting in the imperfection being seen as a unique part of the charm and history of the object. I find this quite the beautiful sentiment. Yet it is one which I am incapable of entertaining as pertains to myself. Long sleepless nights have etched away at me and every chip on my shoulder has previously been cut out of my oaken heart. Thus I constantly burden myself, unable to see the beauty in my myriad flaws. I take a sip of green tea from a japanese tea-cup, broken and refurbished. I didn’t use gold though. I tend to not give that cup to guests. It’s not good enough for others. Yet, as a punishment for breaking it, I drink from it day after day, contemplating its imperfection as a reflection of my own.

I’ve lost my head not in the clouds but in the fog. I’ve walked on shards. I’ve felt fire and ice on my skin at the same time. I’ve trembled as much as the earth in California. I’ve crawled back into bed to hide from existence, yet bleary-eyed, existence looked back at me and handed me a glass of wine. I’ve felt vertigo. I’ve shouted so loudly inside that the silence on the outside felt like a sharp jabbing pain in my side. I’ve run out of breath while sitting down. I’ve wondered whether self-worth is something only suitable to others. I’ve looked for affection in the darkest corners and I’ve been impervious to light in the brightest sun. I’ve become undone. I was done.

And then I continued. Without gold, but a little less cold.

 

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