I have a fascination with broken things.

I wrote it here some time ago. It still echoes in my ears each time more distorted than the last. It reminds me of something. Or, rather, it directs me to a specific thought. I look out for broken pieces to match my broken edges, for from two harmonious pieces can one whole emerge, and that whole, it is truly marvelous. It has to be! Is it?

No. I lied. I’m not seeking completeness. I search for my reflection. I want to understand, surely. My fingers hold the pen to write this, and writings are always real, but it is off-putting to read it to myself in my mind. Not that it hurts or disturbs me, but it seems far from the truth. The truth I feel and sense vividly but do not have either the words or the courage to copy it here. Instead, I have legs. I can run away until it feels just safe enough to catch my breath. Then it repeats, and repeats, and repeats.