Artwork by Gertie Genovese
I was born of perfect porcelain; formed in a short cylindrical mold with a handle to hold. I was painted with beautiful designs — florals and paislies, golds and silvers, wisps and winds. I held what you cannot. The burning liquids inside me, swallowed whole by you. I knew my purpose; a vessel to transfer what is kept in your body and what spills out.
I was crafted by men, in a factory long ago. Back then, they told me I was the most delightful creation. I was special; valuable, even. Held in the hands of a man, I knew I was worth something. I was a being he could not replace. My birth became the creation of a masterpiece — built from glass, painted with precision, perfect to use. I had a purpose.
Where did I go wrong? When did you stop loving me as I am? What could I have done to change what I have now become? My purpose was clear — you drink my contents until there is nothing left but the shell. Was it not enough? To serve you as I have, as my kin have for centuries. You made me this way. You formed who I am, and now you tear me apart, break me down, like I have no soul, no heart, no integrity.
The hammer came down on my shape with passion, and I knew you had meant it. Beating me whole until I was shattered to pieces. Shards of what I once was; a beautiful creation. Now, I am broken, beaten down into uselessness. I had a purpose. You stole my purpose.
Who is to use me now that I have been changed?
You morphed the being I am, changed the mold I have been fit to play. The pieces of me are scattered, lost. I try to pull myself back together. Make what once was a reality again. There is no use. My existence cannot be repaired by simple kintsugi. Your golden liquid cannot soften the edges of my shattered glass. It is pathetic what I have become — a mere memory.
When something loses its purpose it becomes invalid. Without a purpose, do I even exist? You may use me for violence; the same violence that made me this way. I am violent.
Violently lost, violently unfound, violently circling the drain until I am washed away.
My violence is inbound, unforgiving.
You take what is left of me. Pieces of porcelain scattered across the floor. I face the memories taped on your way. The days when life seemed brighter, as stupidly ironic as it may sound. It is stupid, after all, to depress myself this way. What a human could do, I cannot. There is no repairing myself. No means to fix what you have done. I am broken, that is all.
But you hold me still. You piece me together with other broken parts. Glass of different shapes and sizes and textures and colours. Amalgamating a creation of new life. I am formed anew with the rigid edges of these broken things. Bound by our infinite sorrow, these edges become a home. It does not take a genius to recognize what you have done. You shattered my soul, tore my pieces apart, left the sharpness of my body to exist comfortably as you place me beside the others you have broken alike. You call it art — a kind that speaks wordlessly. Because these broken pieces of myself and others once all had purpose, but that is now gone, and replaced in its wake is a new creation.
The realization is bone-deep, like the kind you feel in your youth when you realize the simple niceties of life happen to be a life. I am different, yet I am art. Not with the same purpose, but an entirely new one at that.
A glass mural becomes my new home. Amongst the shattered parts of other objects, I find comfort in the chaos. We all had a purpose. You stole that purpose, and yet, restored it once more. Functionally different. Not at all the same. Something else entirely.
Can we replace the identities we used to behold? Can we let go of our pasts to adapt with the changes? Even if the changes are entirely out of our control? In reformation and recreation, can we rebuild ourselves from the same parts for a different purpose?
Perhaps, I answer. It is not concrete, not sound. But it is enough, for now.
You may call me broken. I called myself the same, for I am no phoenix; I did not rise from the ashes. I remain broken. Purposeless. Useless.
But perhaps…
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