2:55 p.m. | 2005-06-15
All Dressed in Blue
I've had so much floating around in my head recently. Nothing terribly pertinent, but all of it important in a sense.
I've always had this ideal of perfection in my mind. Whether it be who I am or how I live or the character I play, I've always fantasized about perfection. The other day I was hiking up a rather large mountain, which always leaves my mind in this place for thought, because I want to do anything to distract myself from the exhaustion. And as I climbed, step by step, a little higher I started to think deeply. Thoughts about how society was created, thoughts about how all of the universe is based on language (logic in and of itself is a language) and that language and communication is the root of all.
Communication is the transfer of information between two or more parties. Two.
And I started to re-mold my own definition of perfection. Because see, perfection means something without faults. But I love faults, that's my favorite thing about people. I love finding the one thing they hate about themselves so much and loving it to death. I saw this guy at the gym today who would nervously rub his thumb as he did crunches. I have a feeling he'd be embarrassed if anyone ever noticed let alone pointed it out. I love twitches, and things that are uneven, and funny ways of laughing or speaking. They make us all so different.
So in my head I was struggling with the topic of perfection and if (given a completely new and more open definition) it could possibly exist. I came to the decision that given my own definition of what perfection was that it could because my personal definition is for me. In my mind perfection is fighting sometimes. My idea of perfection is overflowing the bathtub and laughing as you find it.
This all came back to me the other day as someone said something about perfection being impossible. I muttered something under my breath. They were taken back when I started to talk like I was, with this strange open deepness to my voice.
It all came back the other day again when I was thinking about what I love. I love coming home. I love working a 9-5. I love coming home to a mess that someone else has left. I like cleaning up after them and cooking a dinner for them.
I keep having these dreams. About boys I know, and all of a sudden I'll have children. And I get this disgusting warmth inside of me. Something I shouldn't be feeling at 19. At nineteen. I'm too young to want children or want to even settle down, or move out of the city. Which is strange, 'cause I don't live in a city. Every time I close my eyes my mind tells me that I have this urge to settle down and fall in love. But every time I wake up I can't help but love being alone and being me and not being tied down.
My heart does nothing but pump blood. My head is what runs me. How is it then that when I sleep I feel one way and when I wake I feel another?
This is getting old.
