I've always preferred pretty to beautiful, always loved things that existed despite themselves rather than because of them. There is something so inherently resonant in all things that hold their own with all their imperfections. My favourite bracelet is a rosary missing a bead, it was in a stall, separated, declared to be of less value, to me though, the missing bead is a speed bump; a simple glance towards my wrist breaks me out of the automation of everyday life and into memories of hot weather, good company, places that had soul and how I enthusiastically declared my eternal love for the unbalanced rosary. There's something very distant about sleek perfect things, things that are too smooth for memories or soul to latch onto and grow, things that are so full of themselves that there is no room for connections, things that are too shiny to show anything but a reflection! There's an instinctive bond between souls with all their indents, grooves, nooks, scar tissue and rough patches and things that feel like they have had their share of life too. If not for the areas of compromise and shape shifting in us, how can we make contact? If not for the small value-diminishing faults in industry, how can you see each thing for it's irreplaceable own? If not for our scars, how could we be ourselves?! Minions, we're OK.
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