When you feel you’re broken, what does it look like? What do you mean? Me? I mean that I am broken like a dawn that you and I will never see again. Ever again. The cloud shaped like running lemmings will never be right above the desolate tree that has all pods and no leaves. The exact shade of orange that I can never replicate in my novice palette is never going to be pouring into and leaching a wayward breath of pink exactly like this. Never again are these two going to come together at exactly 24 deg C. And never again will the breeze wander with just the same song. Never again will my eyes open at that moment and catch the dawn surprising the dreaming. I break like that dawn.
And each time I see the brokenness of it, like the surface of a monk sea splintered by tiny, tiny promises of gold at sunset, all I can think about is how it may have never been fixed to begin with. So then why does it feel so painful to see the brokenness? Why does it cut each time to pick up the pieces with clumsy hands and play at joining them together? Why does it not feel normal to be a flagrant spray of many things and not a whole?
I see the world as whole. Damaged and scarred, bent and stained, but I see it as whole. If there was a superpower that I believe I have, it is my ability to be in denial. Because how else would it be possible for me to see myself as I am? When I think back on my own life, I see my life in that warm evening light of a setting sun, a light made infinitely more aching because it is diffused by dust and cloud and yearnings of the day to stay alive. Blessed, I label my life; lucky, I call myself. Denial is what makes that happen.
In the odd or rare moment that I step out of that charmed place of denial, I see how small I am, and how afraid. How I am infinitely clearer when I write because when I talk I am afraid of the leap in your eyes when I say something I haven’t considered carefully. Have I said it the right way, have I said the right thing? Do the words I use mean the same thing to you or do I have to fall again and gather in a mad rush the sense of what I was trying to say? Why are you talking to me you’re smiling do I sound like a but you’re talking so maybe you have nothing better to do or maybe you think I am making sense what time is it but I want to stay and I don’t want to be the person left behind so should I go but I want to stay maybe if I eat something I’ll be able to talk better because there’ll be food to but it’s too late and I don’t know if you are listneing like you listened the last time but it’s always something or the other and this double dialogue All I was trying to say in the end this, how do you say it, ah yes, too many pauses and they know you’re not saying what you think just stop talking and go home then you won’t be left behind because going home is dreadful oh no no I am not late, I can stay another half hour maybe I should feel better now and ignore what I
Do I have to try again to explain better while you have already made up your mind? I write better because I feel less stupid when I write, because when I talk oh how inarticulate I am, and how afraid, how much I fall behind. Like someone with a brain that doesn’t function every day. Only the odd when a green flag waves or a while light flashes. How I struggle to form the words that my mind is throwing at me. Afraid, and small, and entirely lost. How difficult it is to tell you exactly what I mean. How difficult it is to sit with this brokenness and try and make a whole, some sense, a little speech of who I am in that moment.
How difficult to be one when you are a million.