Imperfect, But Not Broken

I’m packing today. When I pack or clean its like I gain this other sense. When I touch one of my items it’s like this instantaneous spark causes all the memories I have surrounding this thing to come flooding back. Does this happen to normal people? It’s truly like reliving. It’s beautiful and nostalgic, and extremely inconvenient when you’re trying to make progress but can’t move passed a tiny shadow puppet book your aunt got you in 1994.

I don’t know what word exactly would be used to describe this, but when I find something I love, it takes a lot for me to let it go. I don’t own things that I don’t use, or that don’t have a story or some emotional attachment.

I’m pulling posters off the walls that I know I’m going to put up in my new home. I’m looking at rips and tears and holes from the many times they have been put up and brought back down. I’m looking at memories.

I can look at every piece of tape on the back and think of my college dorm room, and the people that were in my life and the goodness we experienced together. I could have saved these posters and kept them clean and unbroken, shiny and new. But what memories would they hold then? They have gotten a little rough around the edges over the years, but that’s how memories seep in.

Memories are in getting dirty. They’re in falling down and getting cuts and bruises, and in the people who tape things up, give you strength, and send you back out there. They aren’t in safe quiet corners, stored in boxes waiting for a day when things are no longer cloaked in danger and injury.

Imperfections and scars do not equal brokenness, they equal life and strength. And sometimes they don’t add up to anything, they just mean that shit happened.

Life isn’t lived in storage, it’s lived out in the open.

It’s lived moving from one place to another, feeling old scars from where you’ve been pinned up and pulled back down, and knowing that you’re going back out there again even if things look a little rough. Things don’t always look pristine, but those places where the mess lives, that’s where the best memories happen.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s