Broken Me. Broken You.
It turns out I’m broken. My heart has been criss crossed with cracks for years. It’s funny that I never notice until I slow down and really let myself get quiet and still – long enough to notice the wind of the outside world easily bypassing my armor – long enough to notice the paintings I’ve hung on the wall. I suppose being broken isn’t all that novel. I imagine you’re broken, too. What excites me is that maybe it’s OK to be broken? Maybe I don’t have to have it all figured out. Maybe the cracks are part of the design that makes me, well, me?