Why do the broken always seem beautiful to you and I? Why are the broken so inviting?
Tell me my friend...because we met.. one beautiful day this last autumn... and saw and embraced with our heart and soul something breaking...Tell me..
Why did we love the sun the most only when it began to dissolve itself bit by bit into twilight?
Why did we love the blazing sphere just when it actually began to melt, and spread out its molten, almost raging lava of light, that flowed through the crevices in the clouds, crevices that seemed like veins throbbing with fiery passion only we could recognize? Do you have the answer yet? To why we love the broken, the split so much. You and I.
No? Well let me remind you more of that only sunset we witnessed together this last autumn. When the sun burnt itself mad, again, to give life to the pale canvas of the sky where the clouds conspired to reflect its light. Aah those clouds now! Why did we love the clouds only when they broke away in separate ripples, like trembling sighs that emit after a bout of crying, and why did we feel mesmerized with the way they stretched and scattered like thin strands of a cotton flower when it is gently split apart? Or like thin streaks of gold caramel dripping from Heaven above...
Tell me again, why do we love the broken more than the whole? Why do we love them so much that we feel ourselves falling apart? And looking away. And swallowing a tear. But for a moment only. Why did we linger and loiter to see the light break its threads? Come on now tell me why did we reach a state of awe only when we saw the light finally split and break into beautiful, nameless pastel hues?
Why did we sigh? Why did we pause? Why did we throw back our heads, closed our eyes and photographed the “spectacle of breaking” in our memory? Why witness only that moment when the sun burnt itself like a hot iron ball before falling out and down in the ash colored horizon? Sorry I didn’t hear you? Were you telling me why we like the broken so much? You and I.
I have tried to find the answers myself. And come to nothing but this. That in the breaking is the very beginning. And like they say, in the beginning is the end (or the breaking itself). And I think, wishfully, that this cycle is revealed to only those who have at least once been broken and have thereby begun. And so, it was clear to me my dear friend of the soul, that you and I were broken ourselves. Repeatedly. Hence, we are but mirror mosaics, you and I. Where it broke once, it hurts, the cracks. Look here now, I have many too. Come face me and let my pieces of mirror reflect your stories of pain. Let pain bind us whole. And let us continue to love the parts before the whole. So let us love...
The golden grain before the entire wheat stalk.
The tiny floating speck of dust that our gaze follows when a stream of light catches it.... a speck before the pale desert sand dunes.
The raindrop on the glass pane as the heavens’ split before the outpour.
The whispering wind that caresses the cheek or dances the flower before a fierce gust.
The scent before the flower.
The stingy bee before the honey.
The salty drop of tear before the sea.
The bare tree before the fruit laden boughs.
The spark before the fire.
The color before the rainbow.
The smile before the laughter.
The letter before the meaning.
The me before the us.
The We before them.
Hell before Heaven.
And—the ache before love.
So, my friend, we could not have felt so had we not been broken or begun even once in our life. You and I. And after all that brokenness we have just begun... starting the day we shared that sunset, this last autumn. You and I...
