Perfectly Imperfect

How often do we break things? Once a day? Twice a day? Thrice a day? Trust me, I'm a klutz. It happens. But how often do we look back at the things we break to realize that not everything can be fixed with dabs of UHU glue? Yes, you could have them back as a piece. Yes, they may look beautiful from afar once again. Yes, it may seem as though nothing has happened and your tracks have successfully been covered...but is it true?

Secretly glad this isn't a fault of mine or I would have been driven up the ceiling or banned from dinner or shoo-ed out of the house or... It just wasn't my fault.

Do you choose to ignore the fine lines in between? Do you not see the cracks on the body of the innocent? They hurt not the one hurt nor the one who did it but the one whom this body belonged to. How often do we look through to notice that there are things around that need more than just one glance? Do we stare into the eyes of the broken or the cracks of the imperfect ones?

Sometimes, if we just take a moment to realize...life is just about the same as little ceramic dolls. We're fragile as such, each carefully crafted into perfection, every little one molded to be as unique and as individualistic as ever. But what if we fall? Who picks up our pieces? Who decides which piece goes where? Who calls it quits in the end? Who holds the decision on putting these parts together? Who looks into the perfection of the job? Who tells you in the end that you've cracked? And finally...who breaks you once again?

I'm that perfectly imperfect child. So sue me.

Because I'm perfectly imperfect...but who the heck cares what YOU have to say about me?
I know I don't.

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