Feet pounding, I run; run because I am alive and faster than defeat. Above me a lone bird cuts through the air and dances in the brilliant rays of sunrise. Letting time drag it's feet a moment I witness the light shooting through each delicate feather. My smile creates sincere dimples in my cheeks.
Fast forward to another time, I am encircled in the arms of a person dear to me, squeezing so hard it steals the breath that would have been laughter. Gradually, a feeling that tastes of joy melts all other thought and makes the complicated simple.
Suddenly I am alone, no other eyes, no other ears, only my own. After a quick look to the left then to the right for good measure, the energy building in my chest explodes and I dance. Faster, then slower, then faster, then slower, I spin and reach. I give myself over to feeling. My soul speaks of secrets, hurts, joys, and sorrows, but I never stop dancing.
What about another moment? The kind when understanding ignites after long standing confusion and every other truth pales in comparison. The deep hunger for knowledge that pulls and tugs at my mind and heart, refusing to be ignored, is suddenly satisfied.
With a sigh, I rest my forehead on the cool class. Outside my window I can hear the rumbling and grumbling of the sky as a thunderstorm strikes. The melodic pitter-patter of rain drips a soothing tune, finding even the deepest corners of my heart.
Cool, familiar, delicious. I sit with a bowl of my favorite ice cream in hand. I let a large spoonful melt on my tongue and watch a movie with my sisters. None of us say a word, but we all know what the other is thinking.
Another time that warrants consideration is born of frustration. When frustration is so intense the tears it brings turn into laughter both delusional and refreshing.
Why am I telling you all of this? Well...I have found a problem in the universal view of perfection and I seek to expose it. People see perfection as something so extreme, so sought after, yet completely unattainable. I believe it is more complex and therefore made simpler. There are types of perfection and the more I experience, the more I write, I am forced to acknowledge that a form of perfection truly exists. It exists in the little things.
