Last Sunday I broke my bracelet. It wasn’t any old bracelet, it was me in beads on my wrist, and I was devastated.
It happened en route to the loo. It got caught on the door handle and, “Ah shit!” The leather came out of its metal bit and made my bracelet dead.
To be honest, it took me a while to control my emotions. I didn’t fall to the tiles clutching it high and screaming, “WHY!?!” But I did need a tissue and a little moment. Ultimately, I needed the distraction given to me by my friends.
I was so sad.
I felt broken now that it was wasn’t whole, and as similarly extinct.
Of course, both quite ridiculous notions but tell that to my heart and the part of me that felt compelled to take this photo:
It’s clear from my reaction that I’d grown mighty attached to this twist of leather with reminders on it. I hadn’t realised its importance until it broke and I no longer existed.
This Me I Be in beads
I recall the thought process that created this bracelet. I recall how it once dripped heavily with many reflections of me. It was a mirror of chaos that never came off my wrist.
Its weight was my presence. It made me real.
I remember when I removed the sundry beads and stopped wearing it at home. It felt natural and comforting, I felt assured of me.
In its 2 years this bracelet changed, and I’m like this bracelet because I changed, too.
I suppose it’s only right, then, that it fell apart. Now it can join me for a fresh start.
I never did vanish
I neither fell into the chasm located near to where I’m clasped nor was I scrapped because I was broken. I managed to maintain my standing and physical integrity throughout.
It seems the strength it gave me is now within me, which is something quite nice to realise.