When I was seven, I stood by a basket of toys for sale.
My grandfather said I could pick one and being the sort of person that loved everything, and despite the fact they were essentially identical, I ran my hands through them for some time as I decided which one I would take home. These days, you’d barely call them toys – they consisted of a pair of googly eyes attached to a strip of dyed sheep’s skin and they ‘crawled’ along when you stroked them.
I took the one with a google missing from its eye. The little black dot that rolls around beneath the plastic dome. I took it because it was different. I took it because I didn’t think anyone else would appreciate it.
Maybe this explains a lot about the kind of things I collect and save now.
Perfection in imperfection
Stories in scars.
Beauty in broken.I don’t necessarily restore the pieces I save. Broken is more honest.
Sometimes, broken is better.