Friday, July 15, 2011

1.a conception of something in its perfection.
2.a standard of perfection or excellence.
3.a person or thing conceived as embodying such a conception or conforming to such a standard, and taken as a model for imitation

I am not one who prizes herself to be a planner or organizer. I am no skeptic who thinks about the ramifications of tomorrow. I am not a perfectionist, rather, I take delight in the imperfections around me. I cannot keep a calendar in order, because I believe this hinders daily creativity that keeps me ticking. I am a sensationalist, often to a fault. I like to be light enough to blow where the wind takes me, and I try my hardest to capture myself in the lack of plans surrounding my day-to-day life. That way I cannot be disappointed when a plan is broken.

I am a piece of silk; transparent and apt to float the ground when pushed off the table. I do not hit the bottom as a pencil would, rather, I take my time gracefully making my way to the carpet. You can see through me, but you can't determine where my stitching begins and ends. You can wear me eloquently, but my fabric is not built for longevity if I'm thrown with other fabrics in the washer.

We are all ideals sometimes; we are assumed to be people of perfection and grace. Truly, we are not trophies or treasures at all. In actually, we are a mere pile of flesh and bones, and I am a soul longing for a kindred spirit to behold me in my transparency and desire to know the parts that are laced with flaw and shortcomings.

Ideals undo one's mortality by creating temporary fantasy out of flesh. It's a tragic truth for all parties involved. Those who have been assumed to be a pinnacle of perfection can never live up to their name, and those who create the beastly fantasy are never satisfied with a flawed reality...

If we could only love and see with open eyes and willing hearts.


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