First time. Unexpected. Smouldering eyes, lazy midsummer night. Green grass, sun set, soft children’s voices in the background. Corn plants bowing, wind stroking my bare skin, tears nearly escaping my eyes. So beautiful, so craved in my head, even after all those years. I still remember the wind growing stronger, clouds covering the red sun and the first rain drops tapping my shoulders. I was standing on an small hill, looking at the approaching storm, the dark, frightening sky and the first lighting cutting heaven in two pieces: one for me, zero for you. Never in my life I had felt so close to nature, so powerful, invincible.
It turned out I was, sometimes. Inimitable. But, frankly speaking, all the other times I was just as normal as any other newbie. And sometimes even worse. Oh no, I’m not perfect and I’ll never be, I can live with that. It’s just, there are several things that seem easy, but they are not, not for me. Like telling you I want to be yours, that I long for your hand touching my hair, your voice at my ear, your sweet swile when I wake up, telling me you wish to be mine too… You only need to tell me where to find you.
People are rejected every day for a dozen of reasons, in a thousand situations. Some cases are a real pity. Boys and girls loving other boys and girls, find themselves rejected, do not receive the amount of attention and love they expect or deserve. People lose their jobs, can’t find another one, lose their house, their wife/husband, children, money and eventually end up dead or alone.
But the smaller rejections or imperfections perhaps hurt even more. Not being able to pass on high school, university, a course, or get a driver’s license, win a contest for some underestimated artistic talent, find the right bank to rent you money or meet the right people to hang out with. Seemingly easy, but not for everyone.
“Find justice for what you lack”, Sarah Jezebel Deva (Angtoria) wrote. Only you know why exactly you are imperfect, but your environment will probably judge your lack differently. And although you know they are not always right, you won’t disappoint them and you also do not want to deal with the embaressment. We are sinner nor saint, at least not on purpose. Those imperfections do not make us sinners, and on the other hand no one is a saint without imperfections.
I will tell you a story now. A long time ago there was a gril who did not worry about the future. She lived in a nice house, her parants did not divorce (yet) and she knew a cojple of nice children to play with. She never failed, she never got dumped, in short: a perfect life. That is what you see when you look in her mirror, that is what we all would like to see in each other’s mirrors. Some people talk, other smash their own mirrors or break down the wall surrounding them, so we, outsiders, can see the truth. The story goes on, today, tomorrow. The girl discovers life is as complicated as described in books, as displayed in movies, as heard from people she knows vaguely. It f***ing is.
But she wants to enjoy her life, feel happy about everything she does. In her case, making a difference, using her knowledge and creativity to make a better world; contributing to culture, saving the environment, convincing people how things can be done better in another way. But sometimes, these imperfections hold her back. She has to cheer herself up, by thinking of all the good things in her current life, because all those yeras she learned that looking back, holding on to the past, does not exactly cheer her up… Though placing herself as a sinner, acting like, imagining she was – is not a saint, comforted her. Don’t distract yourself from the core.
Cheer herself up with small pleasures in life. Enjoying a tasty meal, seeing a mountain range, meeting a special kind of people. It helps, comforts, eases the pain. Many people do not realise sinners hurt too, no matter how close to perfect they may be. Perhaps, they are more sensitive, not used to failure: and considering yourself a sinner decreases the feeling you should do better, though environmental pressure makes all efforts to feel better useless…
The girl killed, eventually. She could not bear the weary eyes of judgement any longer: the words of disgrace, badly hidden in words of advice; the prejudices; the love she wanted but could rarely ever see. Well, she did not literally kill – but if thoughts could kill she now would be a serial killer -but she has been on the edge, looking over town from the highest building. She has been close to going up, leaving everything behind to just close her eyes.
However, she always kept going, alwasy stepped back, endured the pain and continued. I know I have to, ’cause when I look at my dreams I cannot give up on them, not after such a long time…