Belief in Perfection

I didn’t believe in perfection.

I believed in perception of that which surpassed the norm and entered an exalted realm of beauty, but that nothing could be without flaw.

Tell me, have you ever been proved so wrong in something that you feel ashamed for even holding that misguided opinion in the first place? As if all this time the rose you held so close to yourself was but a weed?

We once believed the Sun rose and fell according to the will of Gods, and that we commanded the very stars themselves from the throne around which they danced in shimmering homage. Looking back, such belief was understandable; the answers were far from beneath our noses.

It is when one’s foolish beliefs can be extinguished by merely opening one’s eyes that the feeling of shame is justified.

I once scorned those who wet their cheeks with tears brought about by a gallery or fine art.

The agony of weeping before perfection - weeping before that which you fought against the existence of, weeping at the knowledge that your eyes say it lies directly before you, and yet your arms insist that you could embrace the farthest galaxies of our universe sooner – is the epitome of an oxymoron.

Sadness engulfs you as surely as the seas rise to reclaim the shores; what hope is there for you when someone this perfect exists?

Joy courses through your veins, warming your bones as though a giddy sun has arisen inside your stomach, its tickling rays eliciting radiant smiles; how can you not be happy for those blessed by having this person in their life?

This selfish ache wraps itself around your heart, squeezes your lungs, crushes your chest, and the blissful pain etches bittersweet memories in your mind.

I believe in perfection, and yet I’m unsure if it’s a blessing, or a curse.