“Have no fear of perfection, you’ll never reach it.” Salvador Dali

by WildChild

Living your life walking down a plank in four-inch heels with blindfolds on so you do not have to listen or see once again everything that should not have been and what could have been.  In actuality, looking back, ripping the cover off of your eyes, you see the little gory bits and pieces scattered about diluting the other perfect pieces.  Things you packaged in a box, wrapped tightly round with a bow and stuck under the stairwell.  The truth that you always knew would be.  Some people are not who you thought they were, or perhaps became that person a bit too late for you to appreciate.

Maybe it was just the past that was more unfavorable than the present, but the past is not something that you can willingly erase without taking time to mend.  Ergo: the past is the present.   Be wise to close the chapter, the door, take care and lock it behind you.  Store the memories carefully in the small box wrapped beneath the stairs, only  retained to make you more the wiser in difficult situations to come.

Be honest, be kind.  As imperfect people, this is the most we can do.  Let’s not make life any harder than it has to be, agreed?

I thought I understood it, that I could grasp it, but I didn’t, not really. Only the smudgeness of it; the pink-slippered, all-containered, semi-precious eagerness of it. I didn’t realize it would sometimes be more than whole, that the wholeness was a rather luxurious idea. Because it’s the halves that halve you in half. I didn’t know, don’t know, about the in-between bits; the gory bits of you, and the gory bits of me.