Cement is poured in at birth.
Into the cracks.
Tiny cracks formed at the time of our inception.
From whence we are sent hurtling onto a treacherous path.
Fragmented further by separation…
and by the erasure of our histories, imprinted in our genes.
Imperceptible, yet ever present.

The cement flows in, fills up the gaps, and slowly hardens — dampening our life force.
Turning dark grey to light grey.
Molten to brittle.
It seems undeniably cruel, but how else to fill in these cracks that cause tremors in freshly sown earth?

Some are kept molten.
Ever so gently, the spaces held let it flow out.
How, you may wonder?
Nothing short of an infinite love, coupled with a deep understanding… and an unyielding patience.
Not any flimsy love will do, but a genuine one that clearly reflects the other.
How many are capable of that?

Others become brittle. Humorless. 
Some make light of this avoirdupois they carry around with a wry humor. 

Forgive me if I seem humorless. How do I make light of all this… so inconceivably leaden, I barely move through life.

I walk… travel… move from Asia, to Europe, to the States, and back again.
I do big moves across continents, perhaps to make up for the sense of immobility within. Who sees this weight I’m carrying? Who sees this weary soul under each plastered smile?

The funny thing is that, like a cavity filling, it’s supposed to ease the pain and prevent problems.

Ironically, left to its devices, the cavity heals by itself.
The filling becomes the real problem, causing cracks in the surrounding bone structure, weakening it.

The anxiety to seal over the gaping cracks is understandable.
To pretend they never existed.

What I’ve learned is: the gaps cannot be replaced.
To fill up the gaps, pretending they never existed, is precisely what causes the fissures.
To heal the gaps naturally takes time.
Make no mistake that the scars don’t quite fade, but healing happens…
without further fissures.

It is a cruel disrespect to the gaping wound: to pack it with something unnatural;
smothering it and dismissing it, rather than letting the scabs form and dissolve,
forming a body quirky in its gaps and cobbled pieces.

Did you think, by forcing awkward pieces into the spaces, the rest of it will conform to assume a different form?
A form that looks like your desired object?
Is it not a violation of our birthright?
Were we babies, or playthings?
Humans look malleable, but do not mistake us for play-doh.

There needs to be space for the wounds of the past.
Let there be space.         Hold these spaces tenderly.