November 22, 2009

Perfect! What a word! I seem to hear this ambiguous word oftentimes this year. I wonder what it really means. I am completely perplexed of how one will say a thing is perfect when it’s obviously full of defects. It seems to me that the word itself has completely lost its original meaning. In reality, this word doesn’t appear to exist at all, but somehow we found a way to use it to fit in our civilization; we, each one, gave the word a different meaning, a varying definition which seems to be an understatement of what it truly means. Now, I still ask myself, with my jaw open while looking at the thin air, what does perfect means to me; what word or words have I use to give this "perfect" my own definition, an ambiguity.

When people say that life is perfect as it is, I look around and question why, or how. I just can’t comprehend why anyone would say it’s perfect. Clearly, I make myself seem very pessimistic right now, but, really, how is life prefect; it’s absurd to comment it’s "perfect." I had been planning for a good, happy, livable future but end up having a disgustful, very unendurable, desolated one. And they, the elders, keep on telling me that my future lies in my own hands. Apparently, "perfect" doesn’t have a place in the dictionary. It’s a word that is not worth defining. It’s an ambiguity, unsure, undefined word still trying to find its own unique and absurd definition.

It bothers me whenever I hear someone say perfect. If someone is vigilant enough to see what I see, describing something perfect just seem to put one in a trouble state. Take in consideration this situation: a girl would say that his boyfriend is "perfect" that their relationship is "perfect" that there is nothing as "perfect" as what she is feeling at that moment. Then what happens when they break up: the girl fell into a suicidal mood that she cut her wrist, jumped from the top floor of the building, or do something that will help her relieve the hurtful feeling that is trying to consume her soul. How pitiful! We make ourselves believe that a certain thing is perfect until that thing fail to give us our expectations. We try to make ourselves believe that perfect exists in this world, when clearly it doesn’t, that when we can’t find it we lost our track and hurt ourselves in the way.
I see what I see. I feel what I feel. But never, never will I say that something, or someone, is perfect. Why? Because I’m afraid to fail; I’m afraid to not get what I want; it frightens me that I don’t know what I’m fully capable of to do when I can’t find it. I’m scared to get hurt. I’m scared to be wounded. Most of all, I’m scared to get lost, not find my way back, and fall apart into pieces. Nothing is perfect in this world. Nothing