What's So Good About Picking Up The Pieces Novels & Stories

♠ I learned that when a pottery is broken, it can be put together and made even more beautiful. I'm like a pottery. Though malleable, can still be made beautiful through my scars. I can and will heal despite the astronomical amount of time it'll take. _Yara Chizaram Williams •••

Her breath caught. “But breaking doesn’t always mean ending,” I continued, my voice gentler now, steadier as I managed to sniff in my snort. “Sometimes it just means we come back… differently.” She stared at me like she was trying to hold onto every word, like they might slip away if she didn’t. “There’s a saying,” I added, reaching up to wipe a tear from her cheek, my thumb lingering there for just a second, “pieces broken beyond repair that come back together can’t be broken again.”

“You don’t always have to have everything together, Anastasia. Sometimes, the only way to rebuild is to let things fall apart. You can’t fix what’s broken if you’re still trying to hold it together, pretending everything’s fine.” I swallowed hard, his words sinking in, but they also made me feel vulnerable and exposed in a way that terrified me. I had spent so much time trying to hold everything in place, trying to be strong, that I had never given myself the space to just... feel it all. Alex must have seen the hesitation in my eyes because he gave a small, reassuring smile before continuing. “I know it’s scary,” he said quietly, “But sometimes you need to let the pieces fall. It’s only the

It can do everything, but sometimes it's not enough to catch the curveballs that life throws us. This is not the first time evidence has been presented, but it has never felt so powerful. So indestructible and I am a vulnerable piece that breaks and struggles to reattach itself to the shears that are scattered around. There must be a solution, but I don't know if it's deception, or any silly couple fight.

I had already found out a way to swipe everything out and one of them was making sure that I did not even waste another time trying to pick up the pieces of my life instead I was just going to focus on what I couldn't do and switch it up I had many things on my mind. I'm one of them included making sure that I didn't lose out anymore and nobody was able to take me from granted or make me into a full while I just sucked them watched and hoped that one of these days everything was going to become better because it never did!

All I can do now is pick up the shattered pieces of my life and try to move on, even though it feels impossible. I spend the rest of the day lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and thinking about all that I've lost. I can't help but feel angry and bitter. It's not fair that I have to suffer like this. It's not fair that my baby had to die. As the sun sets and darkness envelops the room, I finally force myself to get up. I walk over to the broken pieces of my phone and pick them up, trying to piece them together as a metaphor for my life. But no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to make the broken pieces fit together again.

Like a pane of glass cracking, fractures making fractures, a fragile crisscross of lines spreading out in a spiderweb shatter. “When something scary happens, or something hurts you, you have to weigh the bad up against the good it gives,” she says. “You have to trust when you look back on it one day, you’ll see all the ways it was pretty. You have to look for the beauty, babe. It’s always there.”

I grabbed a trash bag and began carefully picking up the shards, wincing as some of them pricked my fingers. With every broken piece I discarded, I felt a little bit of the weight on my shoulders lift. It was as if I was throwing away the painful memories along with the debris. I encouraged myself to keep moving, telling myself that this was the start of a fresh beginning. I couldn't keep clinging to the past, to the betrayal that had left my life in ruins.

It makes us whole and sometimes it makes us shattered into pieces where we don’t know how to start on picking up the pieces and just try to live with the pieces that still made us alive and breathing. Those pieces that still gave an intact on our life but we already know that it was as fragile as a glass for one moment, we are already trying to outlive the past only to see ourselves stumbling on the ground and our words being shattered again by those pieces which we believes makes us intact and alive only to realize that those pieces remember every bit of her. Those pieces holds us together for it was the only pieces that remains for her.

As he knelt to pick up the broken pieces, I wondered if that's what we were doing–picking up broken pieces, trying to make them into something whole. Or if we were just cutting ourselves on the shards, calling the bleeding intimacy.