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smashing kintsugi

I can’t help but wonder how many times this vessel can be smashed and glued back together before it finally crumbles to dust.  What began as an enormous, yet, delicate vase has been reduced to a teacup, more fool’s gold than china.  Collecting dust on the shelf.  Watching souls sip tonic from others.  Left only with toxins to carry.

There must be some purpose to this endless loop of destruction and recomposition I am caught in.  How does one “fill their own cup” when all of their waters have been polluted?

Am I a fable? A fairy tale?

Is there a moral to this story?

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