The Impossible is Possible

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Mary is reminded that nothing's impossible, except limiting herself to only the possible.

Submitted: September 29, 2014

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Submitted: September 29, 2014



I feel so broken.

It's like glass that once was an elaborate vase has just crashed into millions of tiny pieces. And people, a majority, refuse to pick up its shattered remnants.

Ever feel like that? So down in the dumps about something? Something you've wanted so badly but it will never be within your grasp? And you know it's impossible.

It's so crazy that it's impossible. Like water slowly flowing through your fingers; no matter how hard you try to keep the water from falling and no matter how much think you can, you can't. 

The tears never stop falling, even if they are not visible on my face.

People always tell me they understand, but let's be reasonable. Do they really?

Can someone completely, or even just a little, understand a similar pain? 

The answer is simple. It's impossible. No matter how much they believe they relate, it will never happen. Everyone goes through pain in their own way; not everyone's pain is classified and categorized. Some have their own special type. 

To anyone who sympathizes with me, can you really? I ask you an easy question. Can you really side with me? Or side against me? What is the idea of taking a person's side? Unbiased or biased reasoning.

Until you fully are capable to make the reason known to yourself by using your own judgment, without looking at others and looking at the facts or statistics or what have you, you do not have the credibility to side with anyone. 

I, myself, question whether I even have the credibility to be writing words onto paper. 

 My fingers cease its pounding upon the keyboard. 

"A essay worth publishing?" I question. After moments of hesitation, I press the "Publish" button and watch as my piece loads onto the website. I lean back in my chair and sigh a long sigh.

 I shut my eyes for a moment. Is what I write what I really feel?

I ponder this question long and hard until my thought process is interrupted by a soft knock on my door.

"Come in," I say.

The doorknob slowly turns as the door is pushed open. My mother comes in carrying a plate of cookies and some warm milk. "Everything okay in here Sweetie?"

"Yeah. Just writing," I reply. 

"Mind if I take a seat for a while?" She speaks, setting the plate and glass on my desk.


She places herself onto my bed and gazes at me with her big brown eyes. "What did you write about today?"

"Nothing much. Just some arguments I sort of came up with," 

"Interesting. I didn't know you liked to write about those sorts of things! I thought you were into the romance stories." She says smiling.

"I still am. I just wanted to try something new I guess," 

"Mind if I read it?" She asks.

"Go ahead." I open the page and she begins to scan the words I have carefully crafted.

After finishing, she remains silent, taking in all of what I had spoken about.

"What do you think?" I question.

"For starters, I think you have a way with words for sure. Such a strong voice throughout the whole piece," She pauses, "I will say that you're introduction is a bit darker. And that isn't like you."

"I know. I just felt like I needed to get a few things off my chest." 

"Like?" She persists.

"Like? Like-"  I stop. "Like school problems."

"This is much deeper than any old school problem." 

"Like boy problems!" I proclaim. "Like awareness problems. Like personality problems. Like friend problems." I finish. "Like everything."

She listens to my rant, her expression is unreadable, which in my case, is not a good sign.

Finally, she begins. "Mary, if you are making this type of argument, then you have no right to judge anyone else. In fact, you are setting the limitations. How do you know that touching water is impossible? How do you know that no one would come and pick up the pieces of shattered glass? Did it ever occur to you that when glass shatters, it becomes sharp. The sharp edges can cut and hurt others. The fact that it causes pain is why some people wait around for someone else who is strong enough to pick up the mess." 

I sit there, shocked at her response.

"I bet you there would be a bunch of people who would pick up your brokenness, and I don't just mean our family. I know that in the future, you will meet new people and they may break you and hurt you, but some may also pick you up and make you new again." 

She ends with, "Don't set limits. Because setting limitations for yourself are impossible. If you just limit youself to only the possible, then that in itself is impossible." She smiles.  And with that, she gets up. "Dinner will be ready in half an hour." And walks out the door.

I try to process everything my Mom said, but it is a lot to think about.  

I turn back to my computer and read the screen of the essay I had just published. I raise my cursor over the "Delete" button and click. 

I then go to a blank page and type a new title. A new story with words. A new meaning that is directed by a new tone.

I read the title over and over in my head. 

The Impossible is Possible


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