Broken.
My very being.
"I am broken" they may say when life gets to be too much.
But for me it means so much more than sorrow.
It is my condition.
My incurable sickness.
"I am broken" I say when I mess up. Again.
Something is profoundly wrong with me.
I can not do it. I can not win.
I am broken.
To accuse something of being broken is to admit to having an idea of what it is to be fixed.
To work.
To know it's purpose, what it's designed to be. To do.
I see. I know.
But I am broken.
I've tried to fix myself, pretended to make it well.
But no one is fooled.....least of all me.
Something about me is not right.
I am incapable. I am a failure. I am a mess.
I am broken.
I see myself as a tiny and fragile doll.
Cracked. Bruised. Fake.
A cheap imitation of what I could have been.
Should have been.
Broken.
I can do nothing. I am nothing.
And everybody knows it.
Weak. Worthless. Damaged.
I have no use. I am pointless.
I can't.
Failure slowly crushes my soul. What's left of it.
Something is wrong.
This is not how it is supposed to be.
Why am I so dysfunctional?
Why don't I work?
Why do I feel so empty, so incomplete?
A Fall, the past remembers...
It shattered me.
From then on I have been trying to recover. Relying on myself to undo it.
But how can something that has been broken fix itself?
Since that day I have been changed.
Marred. Disfigured. Less than.
Broken.
Cut off from Perfection. Barred from Peace.
Brokenness.
It is a disease.
And I embraced it.
"The Fall" they have named it, but I tell you the truth: I jumped.
Headlong.
Realizing too late what was done as my very being splintered with the impact.
Broken I have lain. Broken I have lived.
Something is so very wrong.
Can it be put right? Who among us could?
Can we be healed? Who among us would?
I am broken.
Pathetic. Meaningless.
How could you ever want me?
