Life as A Cup.
"I’ve always believed that the best way to forget someone is to let time pass. But time isn’t always reliable."
— Chungking Express (1994)
Life feels like a porcelain cup, one that shatters over and over again. Each time it breaks, We gather the pieces, and taped them back together. I used to believe that these cracks made me stronger, that with each break, I was becoming something unshakable, something unbreakable. But now, I wonder if that’s true.
Do we actually get stronger, or do we just learn how to live with the scars?
I tell myself that I’ve healed, but the scars linger. Not as wounds anymore, but as whispers of what I’ve survived. The cup still holds water, but it feels heavier now, as if it’s weighed down by everything it’s endured.
Love, too, leaves its marks. When I was younger, I thought love was unbreakable, as if it were made of unyielding steel. It felt infinite, like the summer sky stretching far beyond the horizon. It was wild and untamed, a force that swept me off my feet and left me breathless. But time has a way of testing love, of pressing against its edges until the cracks begin to show. As I grew older, I realized that love, like life, is more fragile than I had imagined. It is not the unyielding steel I once believed it to be; it can shatter if held too tightly or dropped too carelessly.
And yet, even when it breaks, love can be mended. The cracks in its surface tell a story, just as the scars on our hearts do. Love changes with time, becoming something quieter, something softer. It is no longer about the rush of passion or the fire that consumes; it is about the quiet moments of repair, the golden seams that hold us together after we’ve been broken.
Perhaps love is not about perfection, but about endurance. It is not the absence of cracks, but the willingness to piece them back together. To hold the cup carefully, even when it feels heavy with the weight of its history. Love, like life, is fragile, but in its fragility lies its beauty.
I wonder if I ever truly forget. The people I’ve loved, the places I’ve been, the moments that shaped me, they stay with me. Some memories I treasure, while others I try to bury. But even the ones I think are forgotten linger, like shadows stretching across the walls of my mind.
Is it forgetting that we seek, or is it simply the hope that the weight of certain memories will fade, enough for us to carry on?
There are days when I feel like I’m drifting, untethered, through life. Searching for something I can’t name. Is there a purpose to this wandering, or is the act of searching itself enough? I’ve come to realize that we’re all searching for something. A place to belong. A person to love. A way to make sense of the chaos. But even as we search, we carry the weight of our memories, the echoes of the past shaping the way we see the world.
Our memories carry pieces of the people we’ve loved, the things we’ve lost, the dreams we’ve left behind. They become part of us, etched into the cracks of our fragile cups, shaping who we are. And I think about if I ever truly know myself. Each day, I feel like a new version of me is emerging, shaped by the past, reaching for the future, yet caught in the fleeting present.
Can we ever live fully in the now, or are we always drifting between what was and what could be?
And as I look at the cracks on my cup, I see the reflection of my own face. The wrinkles carved into our skin are like the golden cracks in the porcelain, each one holding a story. Each wrinkle records a moment of laughter, a moment of grief. They are the evidence of a life lived, of tears shed, of joy found.
They remind us that even in our brokenness, we are still whole. That even as time shapes us, leaves its marks on us, we are still here, fragile, beautiful, and enduring.
"We’re all just drifting, trying to find a place to belong."
— Fallen Angel (1995)
