They talk about Kintsugi, the Japanese art of mending pottery, tell you how beautiful a broken thing can be when you piece it together with golden thread, when the sun shines on the metal, brilliant sparks painting light and shadow on the walls, bright and luminous and undaunted.
They talk about the beautiful and the splendid, the glamorous and the divine. They don’t talk about the beings that piece themselves together with glue and grit and sweat and determination, how they are imperfect and lopsided, a contorted image of their former selves, distorted and yet so unique, so much more startling with their tattered faith and broken past, yet spitting in the face of the future, in the face of destiny, challenging it, contesting it, toppling the very heavens with their strength.
They are the ones that did not have the luxury of softness, no kind hands pieced them together and no golden thread wove them back to perfection, replacing their numerous cracks with lustrous metal. They pieced themselves together, stubborn fools and mad prophets, kicked themselves from the very bottom, rose with their lungs burning with murk and clogged with water, the depths trying to swallow them up and drown them, smother their voices and their screams, rose and cried their plight to the very skies.
Image ©: Steampunk Tarot
Thoughts and rambles of a sleep deprived writer 