Perfect. P-E-R-F-E-C-T. 7 letters. 5 consonants. 2 vowels. And million gallons of bitter tears.
I am sixteen, I think I have every right to say that I have tasted all the punches of this word in form of bruises on my little chubby face. Nowadays people try to remove the word “perfect” from the accustomed lexicon. We still can use it when we talk about subjective things. But in general…
I mean, nobody’s perfect, right?
You are watching a shoe swinging on her toes which is extremely close to hit the floor. She is enthusiastically telling you something, but her words almost all fell in deaf ears, you can hear her chatter just in snatches. You seem distracted, but you don’t want her to see this, so you are just nodding in the wrong places. You like her cornflower blue eyes and dimples appearing on her cheeks so much. Freckles on her nose and mischievous smile make her look like a child, and it causes you to admire. You are melting under her eyes like an ice cream in the sun. She is a sunflower… No, you are. You are a sunflower and you try to reach your sun. She is the sun.
Her laugh is the bright silver song of a lark, the pretty sound of bells, a sunrise and a sunset, pure, innocent sound pulling the strings of your soul.
The saddest people smile the brightest. By tomorrow she’ll be the sweetness and your special light again.
To be an old soul you need to be deprived of your childhood.
Hands are tied. The body is in endless scrapes, wounds and bruises. Mummy is far away or died. He’s dirty, small, his eyes are large, meek, and quiet. The cries around overwhelm, but he understands everything. He knows what’s next: a poisonous gas into the lungs.
You don’t learn to talk about love before you lose it.
Summer, belonged to them, smelled like the grass, like a hot day, like wild flowers, like the sunburnt hair. It felt like her soft blond curls, like cold water, like the hot sand under feet and the tender of touches. It tasted like sour-sweet apples and Birch juice. It looked like the morning light. And sounded like a breaking heart.
Beautiful picture won`t come to you until you aren`t immersed in hopeless ugliness.
Everything was dark. She found brush, paint, and paper and reached the desk to the touch. She was going to draw the picture in her mind even at gunpoint.
– Lisa, dear, did you get up? Wait for a minute. I will help you to get down the stairs.
You won’t imagine the sweetest fragrance, if everything around you isn’t reeked of something fetid and acrid all the time.
– I love that lavender scent on you. The relish in particular is nice. What is the secret?
– Oh, story of my life! I lived with my auntie, and she had Diogenes syndrome… Then I was working on a garbage track. So now, when I am far away from that awful smell of the garbage, I prefer to smell like the flowers.
Exciting, emotional, heart touching melody won`t born in your mind until a nightmarish cacophony kills you.
Music is a reflection of your inner emotions. I say. I slam my hands down on the piano, dissonance rings out across the room. Today was rough.
To find the uniqueness and the creative in yourself you need to feel that you are disappearing in these grey, identical people.
– Why are you coloring your math notebook?
– Numbers are too-o-o boring. I think pi-number won`t mind, if I paint it pinky, will you, pinky pi?
Probably you can`t even dream when you have everything that you want.
– Chips are here, beer – of course, TV – on, football time! It is enough for anyone!
The pattern is obvious. People closest to us told it when they comfort us: “Any loss or difficulty makes you stronger, it is an experience that breeds a harder soul”. And everything is normal, because, whether we like it or not, we have something to lose all the time, and therefore we become better, we are learning. But where is a limit to this perfection? Since the loss makes us better, then, as long as we have something to lose – we are not perfect? This explains why everybody says that there is no ideal human being.
Because to be an ideal person, this person must lose everything, and, consequently, ideal person is a dead person.