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Flying Ford Anglia

Sometimes I feel broken.

I have seen many dark days, and my journey through the streets of life have left me with a great many battle scars, and worst case scenario reflexes. I have wonderful qualities, a good heart, and am an attractive woman. Still, I wondered aloud today – to my sister – why someone would want to pick me out of the lot, rather than a newer, shinier model.

It’s not that I don’t see my own value.

I’m funny. I’m witty too, which I feel is different. I’m sarcastic, and quick, charming and loveable. I am entertaining, silly, fun to be around, and have a child like appreciation of the world and my surroundings. I am loving, kind (usually), compassionate, and loyal. I am strong, intense, passionate and committed. I have goals and ideas, aspirations and achievements. I am understanding, forgiving and resilient.

But I have been ‘round the block. I’ve been dragged through the mud by more than one villain. I’ve got stains, and wounds, and dark patches of questionable material on the hidden corners of my soul. I react and respond to ghostly apparitions that don’t look anything like the person I am talking to, but often have a stronger hold on my attention. I am afraid of love, and life, and realizing my dreams. I’m afraid of hoping in happiness, worried that I will come oh so close, only to watch it float out the window while I am busy working out a feasible schedule for the attempt of intimacy. I am raw and feral at times, bursting into tears for unknown reasons, wracked with sobs from a monstrous past I haven’t yet learned to escape. And there is no escaping it. It is me. It is part of me, this horrible string of tragedies that have made up my life.

I’m like a dinged up car, with mismatched wheels, a cigarette lighter that doesn’t work and badly torn upholstery in the back seat. My rear view mirror never sits straight, my left turn signal doesn’t work on its own, and my trunk needs a bungee cord to keep it from flying open when I’m in drive. Who would want this? Who would want a broken down beat in used up tin can of a person?

And I don’t know the answer, ok? Don’t pressure me on that.

There are loads of brand new models out there to choose from. If that’s what someone wants, have at it. Shiny ones that purr like kittens. Fancy ones with loads of extras. Brand new, glorious, young things that make life easy and convenient.

Thing is, those babies don’t have the magic I have. I’m like the Weasley’s Flying Ford Anglia. Yeah my lighter is broken, but I can fly. I’m magical. I can take what is given to me and create something entirely new. I can hold a nasty object in my hand, and mold it into something beautiful. I can see past what is in front of me, to the future of what that thing will become. I can inspire, and motivate, encourage and renew. I am alchemical, and restorative, and wondrous. I may not have the shiniest coat of paint, but I guess I can settle for being a Magical Mystery Tour.