No one, at least I don’t think anyone would, deny her deep, dark eyes, her full lips, her flawless skin; no one would, no one could deny her beauty; but in life, when I come across anything too perfect, too pristine, I often balk, or more likely, politely remove myself.
And this behavior is demonstrated throughout every area of my life concerning people, objects, or anything else we humans qualify. I can’t recall when, where, or how this personality trait developed, where my subconscious was influenced, or possibly damaged, but I’ve always been attracted to imperfections, mistakes, damages, not to the point where I demonstrate codependency and seek out these types to fulfill a deep, psychological hole, rather I just seem to recognize the beauty in a favorite pen—its clip broken, a book—pages stained with coffee, a comfortable jacket—pockets unusable with holes, a dresser—melted wax dripped and compacted from burning candles atop it. And this predilection fuses with my attraction toward people, toward their imperfections; I just find perfection extremely boring. Maybe it’s the memories associated with these imperfections, maybe it’s the relatable nature of having fault, but sometimes imperfection is the closest we will ever come to perfection, and that is a beautiful concept to me.
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