Purity. Bliss. Perfection.
That ain’t my kind of deal, to be honest.
I don’t spend time wishing for perfect moments; I wish for unexpected happiness, the kind that isn’t too extravagant, just simple, little moments tucked well within the day’s complexities.
I don’t want lavish spreads of hard-to-pronounce things; I wish for well-thought of gifts that remind me there are people in this life who remember the way you looked at that really cute ice tray in the department store.
I don’t need grand adventures of traveling around the globe; I wish for untold stories and warm tea on a slightly overcast day in a rundown restaurant somewhere downtown.
I don’t look for the sun to brighten my day when it seems dull; I wish for the rain to sing me songs of how a friend was able to pull away from all that was once holding her back.
I don’t wait for the rain to pass when the lightning crackles; I wish for safety while I tap my toes to a dance a little girl taught me while I was shopping for groceries down at the local market.
I don’t expect expensive meals and aged wine; I wish for bacon and eggs slightly burnt at 4:30AM in the morning because we were too busy laughing at ourselves.
Maybe the reason why I love imperfection so much is that despite the cracks, the voids, and the damage, there also lies chance, opportunity, space to become better. We can become filled with more passion, more love, more strength, more drive. Our mistakes are not anchors that weigh us down, but rather memories that serve a purpose.
Don’t ask me what I think a perfect day is like, because I spend my days the same way I wish them to be: imperfect, but meaningful.