I watch a long-worn statue with a broken off hand, still peering over the deat at a Savannah cemetery.

Praise the Mutilated World

Praise the mutilated world.

The world for all its faults and scars is a beautiful place— it has to be, for it is all we have. What does it mean to be broken, or wrecked? Nothing is perfect, untouched, clean, sterile. If it was we wouldn’t like it. I’m sure you’ve seen people try. The fake smile, the immaculate house that echoes with emptiness. The veneer scraped on, over anything that might have endeared them to others. As humans, we love flaws. We love seeing vulnerability and compassion. We like to watch the struggle be overcome. What is success without a challenge? An empty reward, seen and felt as undeserved. If the world, if its people, didn’t have these faults it wouldn’t be real or beautiful or complex. It would just be an empty rock with empty people.

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