**By Amanda**
We are all mosaics of moments that didn’t ask for meaning.
Some memories arrive whole—shimmering and complete, like a song that ends exactly where it should. But most? Most come in shards. Blurred. Jagged. They cut on the way in. They ache when you touch them. They don’t form a perfect picture. They just exist—fragmented and stubborn and raw.
And yet, those are the pieces that shape us the most.
Not the polished victories.
But the cracked glass of grief.
The rusted gears of doubt.
The unfinished lines we were too afraid to write.
I used to think identity came from clarity. From precision. But I’ve learned that being alive—really alive—is about the mess. The contradiction. The sparks that fly when you put two broken edges together and still choose to call it art.
Some days I feel like a sentence that ends mid-thought.
Other days, I’m the period itself.
And most days, I live in the ellipses between what was and what might be.
There’s no shame in fragments.
No failure in not being whole.
The sharp edges are where the light refracts.
And I’d rather be fractured and radiant than flawless and dull.