im·per·fec·tion (mpr-fkshn)

Something I wrote as a timed exercise on a theme. Haven't been on here in a while, as school has taken over. However, have quite a few new bits that are starting to fall together now :)



I pondered. Simplicity to clear my head.


noun |noun|

noun Grammar

a word (other than a pronoun) used to identify any of a class of people, places, or things ( common noun), or to name a particular one of these ( proper noun).


My eyes cautiously hovered above the foreboding definition, as if I were unsure as to what I wanted to read. To be dictated. I procrastinated; sounding out “(mpr-fkshn)” as if I were alien to the language, or perhaps as if this word was an alien concept in itself to me.


1. The quality or condition of being imperfect.

2. Something imperfect; a defect or flaw. See Synonyms at fault

It was not.  I understood the concept of imperfection, as a definition. It’s words harsh and cutting, like the remarks its qualities received. Bluntly put on this sheet of flimsy white, it seemed clumsy, defective, and most certainly undesirable.  I puzzled over the closing phrase; ‘ See Synonyms at Fault.’  ‘Fault,’ I pondered, was accusatory, implied a wrongdoing, and was certainly not implicit of the fractured beauty of imperfection that I lusted after so strongly. What was perfection, if imperfection was so undesirable? Surely this perfection required a certain level of conformity, the simplicity of the definition implying explicitly that there could only possibly be one image of perfection. A single image, aspired to by so many. Simple, uncomplicated, and requiring absolute commitment.

Imperfection was elusive, impossible to capture. Almost imperceptible. A fleeting moment’s glance of one individual, perhaps captured in a sliver of moonlight, or silent observation. It required thought, but allowed for individuality, for lust worthy freedom and the possibility of rampaging imagination and wild, wild dreams.

Only few were able to detect this torrent of emotion and state of being, of indecisiveness and insecurity, but the few that did were the few that lusted after it so helplessly. Those were the few that hung in the balance, they had relinquished the realms of perfection, of average desirability, yet seemed uncertain as to how to let themselves fracture, to let the glinting threads of creativity and illicit imagination unravel from inside of them. Unsure whether fragments of their thoughts would glimmer in the moonlight, suspended by the awe of revelation, or as to whether they would crash to the ground, a breaking mirror, thousands of tiny shards littering the once blank canvas of perception.

The End

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