I see a broken wine bottle on the subway, and immediately, my heart starts to ache. It must have gone through a lot, I wonder. And now–does anyone care about it? Some curse it and call it insidious, but my aching heart tells me that its agonies are far worse. As I lay my eyes on the shattered pieces, I think of its journey–how it was created, transported, sold and bought, cheered and ultimately discarded–and I feel like keeping it.
I love imperfections, for they make one unique. So, as soon as I see a flaw, I fall in love with it. After all, in this world of ugly precision and annoyingly pretentious perfections, imperfections are rare; and so is beauty.
Unfortunately, we have got rid of a lot of imperfect things. I miss them. Things that seem tedious and ridiculous at first, but turn out to be hilarious in every sense. Have you tried them? Igniting a wet piece of wood? Watching your paperboat float and drown? Waiting (day after day) for a letter from someone far? I call them life.
But, of all the imperfections, I miss the ones in people the most. People that are politically incorrect. That say and do silly things. That carry insecurities in their eyes. That fear. That fail. That laugh like crazy. That don’t judge nor do they care about being judged. That don’t know how dress up or talk or behave normally. That are messy. But… that know how to love without reasons. I love them back–and I don’t know why?
Where do they live nowadays? I have no clue. If you happen to meet one of those imperfect people, let her know that I’ve been waiting.