The moment I break a cup, a mundane yet intimate object, and then attempt to rebuild it with rope, reveals the futility of repair - how something can be put back together, but it will never function as it once did. The cracks remain, the structure is altered, and the very essence of the object is lost in the process of reconstruction. I can tie the pieces together as tightly as I want, but the integrity of the cup is irreparably broken. What was once seamless is now a fragile assemblage, held together not by function but by a desperate attempt to deny its brokenness. This act reflects the way rupture exists in the human experience - how certain breaks, whether in trust, identity, or memory, leave behind an imprint that cannot be erased by any effort. Once something is broken, it is never whole again. The reassembled cup, tied with knots, serves as a silent testimony to the impossibility of repair. Though I have forced its fragments back into their familiar shape, it is no longer what it was - it is merely a memory of itself, an object that carries its own destruction within itself. Like wounds that heal but never truly disappear, like words that cannot be unsaid, this broken cup is a reminder that some things, once changed, remain forever changed.