easily torn, not yet mended

A person is, among all else, a material thing, easily torn and not easily mended. No material is easily mended, although some can appear that way to the untrained eye. A hole in one's clothes can be easily mended materially, but an artist's eye is necessary to mask the hole visually. Broken glass can be seen strewn about my neighborhood, but rebuilding a shattered bottle takes skills most will never possess.

Have I been torn? Outright shattered? What skills would mending this person take? Are they skills any human possesses? I feel like the half-buried hexagon of glass next to me, both of us sitting beneath an oak tree, both of us once pieces of a larger whole that fit together, that belonged somewhere. Only now, the piece of glass is unrecognizable from whatever it was once a part of. I'm not that, not visibly altered, not broken in the same sense. Not broken in the sense of a material break, a physical trauma, a wound. But a person is more than the cells that build them. They are more than the myriad of sludges and slimes oozing from their orifices. Material can include psychological material as well as the objects of material science studies. The psyche too can tear.

A person is easily torn and not easily mended. I'm being torn, time and time again, by invisible seamrippers pulling at the threads of family loyalty. Invisible seams held strong for damn near a decade, but the string has frayed and caught on some sharp edge. Torn, and not easily mended. Torn, and damaged by the force of whatever pulled the string, whatever made the wool no longer cover my eyes.