I’ve broken my right wrist and now wear a heavy cast that reaches up to my elbow. I cannot write—only scribble. I've lost something vital to my sense of well-being. I feel robbed of true expression, reduced to flitting about uselessly, distracted.
My thoughts, like my handwriting, wander aimlessly. There is no order, no beauty—only the echo of things broken and damaged, all askew and out of shape. I curse at inanimate objects as if they’re conspiring against me—refusing to be held, slipping behind cabinets, spilling onto the floor.
The endless wars in the world feel much the same—acts of violence carried out mindlessly, with no regard for consequence. I long for order, for health, for peace. But perhaps, like my wrist, the world, too, needs a cast—something to hold it together until healing can begin.
