To be brutally honest: I am completely, entirely and hopelessly imperfect.
I’m imperfect in more than a million ways and I can reach every extreme. However, I am also a kind of messy, wild, carefree, unapologetic imperfect kind of perfectness with one foot stepping into a fairy tale while the other one’s lost its slipper.
No amount of meditation or yoga or books or searching or love or connection or friendships or setting or stages of my life or living in the moment or solitude or company or anything else will settle my soul.
I am it all.
And I make no excuses.
I laugh and then I cry, I love then I hate, I dream then I’m a realist. I go fast, I go slow.
I am peaceful then angry, I am crazy then calm, I dance and then I freeze, I’m a sweetened sour mixed up muddy fiercely gentle storm, a whirlwind capturing everything and then nothing, sometimes separately and then all of it at once.
I feel deeply then feel nothing, I sympathize or empathize, I cut deep then I am wounded, I can scream and then be silent, I may run or stay so still, I will wait and then dive in, I can give but I may take, I seek or I may hide.
I fight or will surrender, I am stubborn, I give in, I’m afraid but can be fearless, I stretch and then pull back, I am proud and then I’m modest, I have hope and then despair, there is nothing that escapes me, not one bit will I deny.
I find happiness in darkness or despair when in the light, I switch them round or blend them in and end with shades red, blue or grey.
I complete only myself when I color on my canvas or just scribble over lines and rub erasers to forget.
I tense then I release, I let go and then I hold, I regret and make my peace and then resign, I make mistakes, make things wrong and make things right.
I make no excuse for who I am and I’m exactly who I please.
I may display or I’ll obscure, I’ll show you or charade me, I can trust or I can question I can doubt, I disbelieve.
I deceive or take off masks, to leave me naked tall or slumped with shoulders oh so heavy weighed down but the weight won’t stay too long.
I will choose and I will give you all of me and let you take me or allow you not one piece, I ask for nothing, so I’ll need not one thing from you returned.
You can accept me or please leave me, you won’t change nor will you alter, you can try as others have, though I won’t wait to see which one.
I will notice each manipulation and each move or open arms or take or leave, I will not care nor will I wallow.
As my cells and all my bones and each deep vein that runs right through me rushes pumped with all the chemicals which keep me feeling life.
So, to make it through each day with all the thoughts and my desires and all my needs that I don’t want and every want that I don’t need, I will stay curiously curious and I’ll ask too many questions, I may answer not one thing or open to you like a book.
I will do just as I please as pleasing only works to suit me, though I mostly think of me, it’s not that I don’t think of you.
I will not aim to hurt nor do I ever like to tamper or discard a heart or feeling if they choose to come my way. But, I was not intentionally seeded just to suit another’s lifestyle or to fertilise and tender to each pretty thorn filled side.
I must twist where roads are straight and I must bend and almost break, for to keep my thirsty hungry I must run on almost empty then I’ll fuel and I’ll recharge to keep my wilderness alive.
And I know I’m so imperfect and so beautifully disastrous, I’m completely and entirely filled up full right to the brim.
Though I’m sometimes viewed as something maybe simple or gentle or carefree when roaming or when free. But when I’m free falling I can’t keep from falling when wandering, I’m determined, uncovering, exploring the deep.
I am everything, I take it, I’ll sweep through each emotion, I’ll accept and then feel, let it stay or it can leave.
As sometimes perfection is not in perfection, not found in a diamond not seen due to flaws.
It’s not in the waters so still with no thrashing nor seen in desire for illusions of gold.
Perfection is not found in levels of heightened immaculate, polished and shiny as new.
Perfect is real and it’s all things so raw, it’s my vulnerable self with so much still to learn.
While I can deny me and not want to show you, afraid of the views and of judgements around.
I cannot be you and I can’t be others, I’ve tried to be calm but I weather all storms.
I’m not scared to be vulnerable, I won’t fit to a type, as I cannot be this, and I will not be that.
So I live wild and messy and imperfectly perfectly, purely and simply being imperfectly me.
Author: Alex Sandra Myles
Editor: Ashleigh Hitchcock