I stood there among the countless rows of porcelain dolls. Each one of us unique, owning a pair of eyes, a fair nose and different shades of cherry lips. Our clothes varied in style, in laces, in collars, in sleeves, in skirts, in pants. Our shoes differed in shape and height. Neither did we possess the same amount of bow. Some didn’t even had any. But we’re all equally special.
I saw the Master enter the room. Spectacles in hand and now on the face. Eyed each little doll: each sweetly delicate doll made to perfection. Every now and then the Master’s eyes would glow, glare and gleam at once. I knew deep down I was not the only one praying for a false alarm or an emergency so that the Master would leave the room at once; leave us free from the wrath that was more often than usual afoot.
But of course, we’ve never seen better days. I’ve never understood better than I had never seen better days. But there’s this one question that I would like to ask.
If we’re made to perfection, what’s the point of us being uniquely made and yet we have to be subject for smashing, breaking and shattering everyday? We believe ourselves to be enough. We’re told that we are. But we are broken everyday. The pieces of us that we lose everyday, we never regain. And it’s the same day everyday.
When the sun slumbers, we’re all bound to mend ourselves. We’re all supposed to put the lost broken pieces back together. Some don’t fit through the cracks. Some remained with lost shards. But all of us struggle to walk through the crookedness and our incompleteness.
I wonder if the Master still deem me important. I wonder if the Master thinks I matter. Because there had been too many cracks on my face. I guess it probably shows.