Fragmentary, Post 1: "Nothing is Quite Like Gold"
Fragmentary: A Mosaic Project, Post One
By David Emrys
What will I put on my plate before I break it? I'm not sure, to be honest. Why would I even break a plate in the first place? Maybe because in some ways, it reminds me of myself.
I used to think that I could pretend it never happened. My skin was smooth, no marks, no scars, no proof that it ever existed outside of my head. Maybe if I told myself that long enough, I'd believe it.
I used to think that I could convince myself they were only nightmares. Nothing actually real, just vivid daydreams instead of painful memories. I never could escape the memories. Everywhere I'd look, I'd see the marks, the scars that no one else could see. Every time I would look at my reflection, I would see myself broken, fragmented, like a cracked plate. I felt unlovable, unwanted, barely able to hold myself together. For the longest time no one could see that, not at first, I made sure of that. Every fragment I'd put back in its place, tie it back to myself, attaching it with glue and scotch tape until I couldn't see the damage anymore. I'd convince myself it wasn't there, maybe I convinced everyone else, perhaps not.
At 21 years old I'm still not better; I never will be entirely. Every crack leaves permanent damage, and no matter how you fill it, it will always be there. I'm still fragile, like porcelain. I even don't talk about the majority of what happened, nor do I talk about my feelings. I patch them up, covering them as much as I can so that I don't have to see them.
Glue and scotch tape doesn't hold for very long.
I've started ripping them off, each strip, piece by piece. I suppose writing them on something as fragile as myself is a part of that process. It's hard to put everything out, hard to expose things to others but especially to myself. It's a lot like putting everything out on a plate, for everyone to see, but even I don't want to see it. Each fragment represents something horrible, some ugly part that I've never told anyone.
They are ugly, but I'm putting them back together, piece by piece, filling in each crack with gold to make it into something beautiful. Glue and scotch tape held me along for years, enough to keep it hidden from myself. Yet, if you fix a plate with glue and scotch tape, it isn't really fixing it. You still can't use it, and only from a distance it looks whole. But if you take the pieces and bond them with gold into something new, something beautiful like a mosaic, it isn't broken anymore.
When I'm done I won't ever look anything like did before. My scars won't be hidden and protected, rather each fragment will be visible for the world to see. Not everyone will see me for what I used to be, nor will they see a mosaic as once being a plate. When I'm finished, maybe I'll end up being as beautiful as the mosaic I'm going to make, and only I will know what was written on the plate in the first place. My plate will be just like me, once broken, held together by gold and beautiful in my reflection.
I still don't know exactly what I will write, I have too many secrets and too many experiences to fit on one plate. I suppose the first thing I'd write is the first thing I'd want to put away. Glue and scotch tape can do wonders, but nothing is quite like gold.