I have this idea that imperfection is beauty. It’s not original in any sense, but it’s my adopted counter to what everyone had told me before, including my mother who said to pick up my chin, sit with both feet on the ground, look proper, and watch everything I do.

That was so tiring.

And what is the point of perfection if what it really signifies is being normal, fitting in?

Life is far more interesting as a weirdo, as someone who just doesn’t always fit in with everything, as someone who is willing to be rough around the edges, as someone who takes life by the hand and pledges:

“I will not treat you the same as everyone else does.”

I like the way jagged edges look, and rough textured cloth that is representative of its tumbled past (a past we all have). Tripping up on words and thoughts that aren’t fully collected are indicative of the vulnerability we hold that distinguish us as alive, as agents of our own life, but not agents of the untamed earth.

I am not perfect, and my wrinkled flannel shirt, black pants distinguished by unintentional holes, and dirt-caked sneakers show that exactly. Imperfection, in so many ways, is more aesthetically pleasing than any perfectly aligned black squares.

So I’m just going to remind myself: don’t be a square, be a fucking crazy irregular heptagon.

Featured image credit to Noel Shiveley (@noeltheartist on Instagram)


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