Would it make sense if I said I was cracked but not broken?
Because that’s precisely what I am.
Though anything I try and keep inside of me is bound to leak out against my say, it can’t rush out as if there was nothing holding it back.
I used to be broken. I was wholly vulnerable at the same time.
Now I am merely cracked.
The pieces have been put back together with a delicate touch and though I am only so much pressure from collapsing, I haven’t collapsed just yet
Which is because although I am cracked, I am no longer broken
Since hearing it used as an adjective for a person in a tv show I love using the word “cracked” to describe myself. I guess that at least in my own eyes, I am cracked. I used to be broken. God is the reason I am now merely cracked. That’s not meant to insult God by suggesting He’s not good enough to fix me entirely. Put it this way, though – what good is a light in a pot if the pot has no cracks or holes to let the light through? None. See, I need my cracks to shine where God wants me to for Him.
As much as those cracks let me shine, though, they’re still damage. I’m still damaged. I’m far from perfect. Oftentimes I look at all my cracks and choose which one is the biggest, blaming it as the reason for some peoples’ dislike of me. However, then I often think that perhaps perfection would be worse – as humans do we not envy that which is “better”? I think I would rather be the receptor of hate than envy, as neither is Godly but perhaps I feel that hate is more easily fixed.
Lately, I have been feeling those cracks very tangibly. It’s the dark circles under my eyes, the poison that gushes from my mouth, or the brief attacks of anger that have gnawed at my heart. My heart which, it seems, beats blood one moment and acid the next. There doesn’t seem to be any happy medium between love and hate, so I have learned. Too much over the balance will result in a full-scale shift. Recently, that is what has continued to happen. It runs the title hypocrite through my veins and I hate it.
But I learned something. Cracked is beautiful. Sometimes cracked is more beautiful than the perceived ideas of perfection. Cracked is real, with personality, with an openness that does not allow so much to be hidden. Perfect is false, the same as everything else and lacking and individuality which we all so secretly desperately seek – to beset apart - and with such strong, firm walls and structure that even the darkest secrets can be easily hidden in its depths.
I guess what I mean is I am not perfect. My cracks are all the more evidence of that when I am put under pressure. Those are the times they push to pull apart and collapse. Those are the times when God alone keeps me together. But, when I really look at it and be honest, if I had the choice between cracked or perfect, I would pick cracked every time.
~ Emma
P.S. So it's finally snowing. The one thing is, I REALLY wanted a snow day. Since I didn't get one, but I still managed to get out the door and to school, I figured this shirt was appropriate.
Because that’s precisely what I am.
Though anything I try and keep inside of me is bound to leak out against my say, it can’t rush out as if there was nothing holding it back.
I used to be broken. I was wholly vulnerable at the same time.
Now I am merely cracked.
The pieces have been put back together with a delicate touch and though I am only so much pressure from collapsing, I haven’t collapsed just yet
Which is because although I am cracked, I am no longer broken
Since hearing it used as an adjective for a person in a tv show I love using the word “cracked” to describe myself. I guess that at least in my own eyes, I am cracked. I used to be broken. God is the reason I am now merely cracked. That’s not meant to insult God by suggesting He’s not good enough to fix me entirely. Put it this way, though – what good is a light in a pot if the pot has no cracks or holes to let the light through? None. See, I need my cracks to shine where God wants me to for Him.
As much as those cracks let me shine, though, they’re still damage. I’m still damaged. I’m far from perfect. Oftentimes I look at all my cracks and choose which one is the biggest, blaming it as the reason for some peoples’ dislike of me. However, then I often think that perhaps perfection would be worse – as humans do we not envy that which is “better”? I think I would rather be the receptor of hate than envy, as neither is Godly but perhaps I feel that hate is more easily fixed.
Lately, I have been feeling those cracks very tangibly. It’s the dark circles under my eyes, the poison that gushes from my mouth, or the brief attacks of anger that have gnawed at my heart. My heart which, it seems, beats blood one moment and acid the next. There doesn’t seem to be any happy medium between love and hate, so I have learned. Too much over the balance will result in a full-scale shift. Recently, that is what has continued to happen. It runs the title hypocrite through my veins and I hate it.
But I learned something. Cracked is beautiful. Sometimes cracked is more beautiful than the perceived ideas of perfection. Cracked is real, with personality, with an openness that does not allow so much to be hidden. Perfect is false, the same as everything else and lacking and individuality which we all so secretly desperately seek – to beset apart - and with such strong, firm walls and structure that even the darkest secrets can be easily hidden in its depths.
I guess what I mean is I am not perfect. My cracks are all the more evidence of that when I am put under pressure. Those are the times they push to pull apart and collapse. Those are the times when God alone keeps me together. But, when I really look at it and be honest, if I had the choice between cracked or perfect, I would pick cracked every time.
~ Emma
P.S. So it's finally snowing. The one thing is, I REALLY wanted a snow day. Since I didn't get one, but I still managed to get out the door and to school, I figured this shirt was appropriate.
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| It says "Achievement Unlocked : Left the house" |
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