There are moments when I feel broken. Not necessarily broken-hearted. Just broken. Defective. Malfunctioning. Built with a production oversight. A crooked leg, a shaky wheel.
And during those moments I tell myself, perhaps I’m not broken at all. Perhaps the instructions that came with me have just been written in a language no one understands.
Not even me.
I’m no pre-fabricated, Lego, Ikea man, that’s for sure. Takes some care, some patience, some real tools (especially a hammer) for me to be assembled. I’m not expecting anyone to build me. I have to do that. So if I look lop, slack, broken, it’s only because I’ve been too arrogant to do the real work, to follow the instructions to my own life (which by the way I had a great hand in writing. It’s weird that I can’t make out my own words,) and too proud to ask for help.