Unintentional.

A small playing card, one out of fifty-two, sitting on my desk. It's nothing special, minus the evidence of a beautiful tragedy. An unintentional makeover, perhaps an act of destiny. White has faded to blue, the card's canvas texture has fallen victim to an accident, overcome by mystery blue liquid, the smoothness of the card vanishing. I run my fingers over the areas where the glossy finish has been rubbed off. The fibers of the inner workings of the card are exposed, like wires I'm not supposed to see. The facade is tarnished, disrupted, ruined. I flip the card between my fingers. Thin and fragile, its new landscape of dents and wrinkles makes it look like something ancient, an artifact of the past, a souvenir of some epic adventure gone wrong. As I further examine the card, I realize that I'm examining myself.

I understand this card. I am this card.

I am a small sliver of compressed fibers, just one card in a giant deck. I am not original upon creation - my function is predetermined. I am not meant to be the product of an accident, an unintentional masterpiece that can fit in the palm of your hand. I am every other card, every other suit, every other number. Time has transformed my rigid rectangular shape by experience, every bend and rip is a sign of my life. Living, breathing, struggling life. I have been through hell and back, mysterious blue accidents, rips, folds, imperfections. My two-dimensional intentions are no longer. I take up space, I have a place in the world. The I may be a lowly three of spades, but I am the definition of a beautiful disaster. Unintentional, rare, disastrous, beautiful.