Imperfect, perfect-ed.

My sister always jokes that I want the greatest life that has ever existed. Every time someone brings us flowers, I make a comment about always wanting fresh cut flowers in the house to brighten up the rooms. I make lists of books I think will enrich my life. I wade through thousands of slides, looking for a piece of art to put over my bed, but never can decide on just one. I choose what I eat not based on nutritional value or caloric content, but by how pleasurable it feels on the tongue, how satisfying it is. Sometimes I think I spend so much time trying to create the perfect life that I forget about all the perfectly imperfect things that make life so beautiful.

Was it wrong to want all of these things in my life? Perhaps not at all. In a way, I believe they all stand for something greater—-a material representation of things that are difficult to identify and nearly impossible to recreate. The books may stand for the knowledge and enlightenment I actively seek throughout my life. The flowers may represent a simple, natural beauty I long for in all aspects of being. The sweets and fresh fruit and delicious, satisfying meals are the ultimate basic pleasures—a way of indulging the senses, exploring a realm of delectable treats.

Through all of this, the writing has always been there. An outlet, a pastime, a love. And perhaps, if all else disappears—if the books are all read, the flowers wilt and die, the food looses its taste, the writing will still be there to live, to love me back. Because, after all, I've perfected imperfect.