We are born misshapen lumps too vulnerable to be called flawed. We craft ourselves out of memorabilia we collect along the way, looking for space among the things we don’t remember sticking to ourselves. We are built of parts that were not crafted to fit together, playing a game of Tetris where the blocks are made of anything but squares. We were never “whole”; we were never supposed to be.

You are built of pieces. You are an ode to the history written by your existence, to the ripples you birthed as soon as you entered the pond. You were born to make waves. Do not be ashamed of your echoes; your humming atoms were never meant to make silence. You are every seismic cataclysm that shook pieces from you and shattered those that remained. You are not inferior for what seemingly little fragmented weakness is left.

Even broken glass shines under street lights. Even the discarded remnants of someone’s bad habit can shimmer. Your shattered transparency can still shine bright for someone who will stand in the right spot. You can sparkle like stars, turning the harsh light of the night lamp into someone’s personal constellation. You are radiant wonder illuminating their lonely walk down the dark street.

You are the lines of a poem echoing on the adorned walls of this monastery we call a coffeeshop; this is what we call God, and you have brought Her here. We are a collage of each other’s fragments, and you would have little to share if you were never cracked. The ink that fills those fractures forms the patterns that make us forget for a moment that we are anything at all. For now, we are spectators to your splendor gushing from wherever it can escape.