Monday, November 2, 2015

The Vase (a metaphor)

It was a favorite of mine. It was beautiful and precious and oh-so fragile. I had treasured it from the moment it was “mine.” I had done my best to protect it and keep it beautiful. A handful times over the years, it had fallen and suffered damage. Once it even split right in two. Every time it was damaged, I gently tended to it, trying to restore it, but it was never quite the same.

Then, one morning, I watched as he picked it up and slammed it to the floor. It shattered everywhere and I felt the hot burn of angry tears sting at my eyes. For a moment, I just looked at the mess, seething in anger at him for being so cruel. Then, my heart broke over the brokenness which surrounded me and I got to my knees and began working.

I vainly tried to locate and identify each broken piece, to figure out how to put back together the shards which vaguely reminded me of one of the most precious things in my life. I cried and I cursed and I gently tried to mend it. My hands slowly became covered in cuts as the thing I once loved somehow turned into a weapon against me.

As the blood began to cover my hands, I looked at my work to see what I had thought was slowly being put back together, was actually just an ugly mess. I became infuriated as I looked back and forth from my bloody hands to the mess before me. I had tried so hard. I had done everything I could. But this? This was now nothing more than a painful mess.

The anger burned hot, deep inside my gut, and my head became foggy. I picked up the “fixed” part of the mess and hurled it at the wall as I screamed loud and crazy, “I HATE YOU!

I crumpled to the floor, amidst the shards and blood and reminders of my failed attempts to fix it, and I cried. I cried for what was, but can never be again. I cried at the realization of my futility. I cried at the mess I was going to have to clean. I cried because I let this broken thing bring me to a point of hatred. I cried, because sometimes, it's the only thing left to do.

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