I don’t know about your Valentine’s Day, internet, but mine consisted of watching the greatest love story of all time and throwing things.
It’s not that I’m against love, but watching gory revengeful movies and getting out all your feelings on one of the dumbest holidays ever is healthy. I’m an expert who needs no entanglements or silly boyfriends or head-over-heels-crushes to stay happy. Or you know, I might just be a cynic of love who is scared to admit that she still is a hopeless romantic who loves musicals under that tough skin and constant making-fun-of-relationships-facade.
Anyway, overshared insecurities aside, one thing that’s truly true- I’m a visual learner.
As much as words can comfort me and I can bask in them, roll them around on my tongue and rewind television shows just to hear the rhythm in the way certain sentences sound, if I really want to drive a point home, I have to see it with my baby blues. I want to open my eyes wide and get to know the colors and shapes and textures and how the light hits something just so.
Luckily, I got to learn this particular way last night, when my friends and I had ourselves a little “Break” party. This tradition is one that I heard from a friend back when I lived at home, and implemented as much as I could throughout high school and you know what? It still works wonders.
It’s simple, really. We drove to Goodwill and collected a handful of cheap plates (as seen in above graphic); all of different colors but all those that looked extra china-y. We then brought the plates back and attacked them with sharpies, writing out everything that we wanted to see break into a million little pieces. Fears, bad dreams, regrets, doubts, experiences that hurt, and since it was Valentine’s Day, I’d reckon to say that most our plates had failed relationships, lost loves and the names of soul-crushing boys and heart-stealing girls that we wish we’d never run into in the first place written all over them. We kept our plates to ourselves, mulling over them until we were all ready. We trekked out to the railroad tracks behind our apartment, and huddled together, we said goodbye to our precious regret-stained dishes. One by one, we said goodbye to pain and failures and secrets and feelings that left us worse off. Standing across from each other, we addressed our plates individually, and, as if in slow motion from our very own Tarantino movie scene, then smashed them into the tracks, watching it all break away and cheering with each broken dish at the realization that, surely, it was all just words on a plate anyway.
Pretty sure I had the best Valentine’s Day of my life last night.
Call it dramatic, call it childish, but I can honestly say that I left a few things on that railroad track that I won’t be needing anymore. Maybe plates need to break so that we don’t have to.