Imperfection

Danny raised her hand, perplexed by the moment, as she finally realised that she was different. Alive. A being that existed and thought just like everyone else. But, as the thought bombarded her growing mind, she knew that she wasn’t quite the same as all the others. None of them were the same, in the exact meaning of such words. She had imperfections. Knew them. Thought them. Lived them upon each of her waking days.

She looked at the lines spread across the palm of her hand. Lifelines, crossroads, the individualism plain for all to see. She moved her fingers, watching as the lines folded slightly, compressing, as her fingers formed a tight fist. She was alive, living, a spectacle of two people’s emotional moment and purpose. Lowering her hand, she moved her face closer to the mirror, as her reflection becoming the all-encompassing view. She, according to friends, had a good face, a pleasing face, a face that would surely accomplish moments within her life. She’d heard all the words, digested their meaning, with most of them simply falling away to ash within her thoughts.

The negative, the harsh words, seemed to linger far longer than any positive connotations. She lived within a cruel infrastructure of small minds. The rampant devastation caused by a group, a person, a moment and more. Frail young minds, fighting to be seen, whilst desiring to fit in. The compromise, seldom actually working when faced with wicked minds and cruel emoticons. You simply could not be an individual, yet fit in, unless you sat upon the top echelon of status. The sadness, she knew that they probably felt sitting high upon their pedestals, seldom helped her own anguish settle.

She looked at her eyebrows, normal, standard, the actual hair upon her brows not yet replaced by any unnatural substance. Her lips, still their normal size, with only her ears being pierced. She’d smile, if it were not for the imperfections staring her in her own eyes. The purity of childhood, slowly erasing itself from her own thoughts, subsumed into the walking ways of her life. She looked down at the sink, wondering what she should change, of even if she should change.

No answer appeared, no solace arrived, despite the hours and days witnessing the people around her doing what they did.  The maze of life arising from nowhere, the confusion of not quite knowing which direction to point her thoughts and views, ever so slightly confusing her every thought. She’d heard the word anxiety, but this was different. Suffocating. It wasn’t boredom, it wasn’t a free-falling expression, as this was absolute, crushing, panic as to what she was. What she’d become, where she’d head in her life.

Her parents often looked at her, with their wide-eyed love and expression. They offered advice which, to her emotions, just seemed far too practical to such a person that wanted to cry one moment, evaporate the next, with screaming being the bubbling emotion just under her own skin. They’d stated, time and time again, that life would become harder once she ventured out, but not knowing what, or who, you were to become, stifled any logic that they seemed to constantly throw her way. Be this, be that, or be the other. Yet, when they’d stopped talking, all she needed was a hug and to know that it would all be alright. Maybe, possibly. Realism, understanding, no sugar coating was what she’d appreciate or, even, just some silence to allow her thoughts to think.

With a hand holding either side of the sink, she felt the confusion, anger, panic and solitude rise within her. She’d scream, at the top of her lungs, if the house wasn’t empty. The room full of people, despite her deep longing loneliness, never seemed to help. Instead, grasping her inner thoughts, she started to breath. Controlling her inner monologue, she held herself together.

She would be whatever she would be. She’d think whatever she would think. This, above all, was her life and thankfully, she would listen, she would integrate their suggestions and words into her thoughts. On the other hand, she knew that she’d probably never do anything they said as, above all, as she’d just thought, this was her life and hers to control. She’d allow her emotions freedom of expression. She’d permit the others to raise their harsh words upon her delicate ears. She’d understand, that when the lights turned off at the end of each day, all of them, every single person on this world, had their own torturing thoughts. Just like her, their imperfections were open for all to see, no matter how much they tried to hide, fit in, or submissive themselves. Without imperfections, the world would be a very, very boring place and, if she were honest, the very word itself held the wrong connotation. Imperfections were, realistically, the things that made them perfect. Each and every single person upon this world.

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