I dreamt of skeletons dancing under the ebony sky. They were dressed and proper — and they were perfect. I envied them, each skeleton – so proper and so perfect.
Perfection is a mere word, but to some it has a great deal of importance. Some give their whole life in hopes to attain their level of perfection while others grieve knowing that they will never achieve it. I on the other hand do not purpose any reaction towards this. Perfection is a word indeed, but is it a word of truth? Does it exist? Is there such a thing to be faultless in a society where the fingers are always pointed at the wrong people? Or to be viewed as flawless in a world where gorgeous is considered as ‘slutty’ or indecent by a variety of others? I suppose to be perfect in a very imperfect world can simply not exist and to assume that there is such a thing is ridiculous. I do not seek perfection, although I do wish for acceptance. Not from others as you might assume, but from myself. I want to accept myself. Is it such a task? To be happy with who I am? To wake up in the morning, look at myself in the mirror and be alright. That would be a day worth living. As for the rest of these days, I cannot admit otherwise.