Broken
All around me are people hiding behind their social masks in order to function, terrified of giving away the slightest glimpse of the fact that they’re broken.
I think that we’re all a little bit broken, and that it shouldn’t be what defines us.
Being broken only means that you have experienced life; and life in itself is a constant battle of staying alive.
But what does that even mean; being alive?
Everyone has a different answer to that question, and that’s why it’s important to understand that there’s no simple check-list that you can use in order to achieve whatever goal you’re looking for.
From left to right, friends and unknown names are slowly crumbling. The curtain of agony and despair draping them whenever they’re alone.
The fear of being alone, to not be enough consumes us all and thus we do everything in our power to undo this sensation of isolation.
I hear you laughing, I see you smiling; and yet I know that on the inside you feel absolutely nothing. You giggle, but only because the social codes told you to. You long for something more than simply existing. You’re tired of constantly screaming into a vacuum, hoping that the bubble of disappointment will someday pop.
I ask myself; why is it so hard to simply be happy? It’s like I’m digging and digging but there’s no bottom, no hidden treasure for me to find.
It’s frustrating, and I try to understand why I’m struggling with something that’s supposed to be included my so-called average-life-package.
With a deep sigh I turn to those I know, to those that I consider being my friends and family. I tell them how I feel, how my inner conflicts haunt me day in and day out.
And I cannot help but to feel that it’s as if I’m talking to a wall.
It doesn’t matter what kind of sprinkled adulation that I’m given - because whenever I look in the mirror, I see nothing but a failure.
It’s as if I can sense the claws of the monster that lurks within, scratching along my nape as I doubt the value of myself. Every day the demon whispers, slowly corrupting my mind.
I have come to the conclusion that tears make no difference, but damn, sometimes it’s such a relief to just give in.
From time to time, I join my inner demon, allowing it to lure me deeper within its cavern of desolation. I won’t lie, it’s kind of soothing.
It’s…painless.
However, at some point I have to leave the darkness that the demon offers. Sometimes it’s easier, and sometimes it’s not. The demon is an expert at seducing me back to its comfort, pressing all the right buttons when it misses my company.
The thing is that it’s ok to be broken, but only you can mend yourself together.
Sometimes it’s going to feel useless, as if you have shattered too many times and therefore there’s no use in trying.
When that happens, I want you to remember a technique known as Kintsugi. It’s a philosophy used by the Japanese when a piece of art is broken. Instead of discarding the item, they preserve its history and repairs it with gold.
The demon is, and will forever be a part of you. Whatever it is that you have endured will be with you, always. It’s what forms you into the very person that you are today. Take pride in that, wear it like a crown like the motherfucking queen or king that you are.
Yes, you’re broken - but you’re also filled with gold.
