The Root of All Flaws

[Dedicated To My Wonderful Friend Rhi]

As humans we are flawed. Some of us have minor things we may consider flaws within ourselves – we may irritate others with our vexatiously loud chewing; speak out of line and go on a tangent a tad too often, or even bite our nails to the point that strangers may wonder what incurable disease our fingers may have contracted.

For many of us, we have a whole plethora of flaws, and a reasonably large amount of us may not even be aware of any of them; – I am not one of those people. I envy those who can go so blithely unaware of their faults, as the saying goes: ‘Ignorance is bliss’. But I am one of those people who is painfully aware of everything I may do wrong that it haunts me at any given moment. I can be seated in class staring at my charming little doodles when it suddenly occurs to me that I am incredibly awkwardly clumsy. I could be preparing dinner and out of the blue the thought that I fumble with my words all the time strikes me. I may even be sleeping soundly when I abruptly wake up in distress so I can contemplate my inability to sit still.

As much as I may sound afflicted by these minor flaws however, I can actually tolerate them. It’s my bigger, personality flaws that really seem to sink my soul.

Recently in a conversation with a close friend, she absently mindedly brought up some of my flaws, then when I expressed how self conscious I was, now that she had materialised them in conversation, she told me it was okay because she could ‘deal with them’. The problem was that I was already aware of them… but some how her saying it to me hurt me more than I could’ve anticipated, and somehow made them more real and pressing.

There are two major flaws that I am aware of; the first being that I am: Uptight (as fuck – as the kids say these days), and the second being: I rant a-hell-of-a-lot.

But here’s the thing, like most personality traits that may be considered flaws, there are reasons, situations and various things that have encoded these traits into our being. I struggle to know whether I am simply making excuses or if I am genuinely right in believing that there are roots to my flaws, so I’ll explain what I believe may have caused me to contract these troublesome flaws of mine, and plant the seed for you to decide.

Ranting too much: The reason I may rant an awful lot now is because, as a child whenever I’d cry or get myself into trouble, I was expected not to cry, even when I was being yelled at or even had a spanking. I’ve never really understand why parents do this – surely, as annoying as crying is, it’s a sign of remorse, no? As well as that, being the youngest meant that no one really cared all too much what I thought about any given situation or had the time to ask what was on my mind. Anyhow, this meant that growing up, anytime I was upset, perturbed or angry, I kept it to myself. No matter how big it may have been. When I finally came across friends who encouraged me to share my woes, my feelings were suddenly validated and thus the overflow of words – which may be considered ‘ranting’ – was set free. And ever since I’ve probably never been able to stop, it’s my way of coping and allowing myself to realise that the emotions a I feel are real, and are meant to be felt. Yet I know that ranting in itself is an unfavourable quality.

Being up tight: Despite many factors coming into this particular one, some of the main reasons I feel are fairly obviously. As a child of a large family, calamity and conflict was always around the corner. I had nieces and nephews who were three or more years younger, thus sometimes I felt it was my duty to protect them all from it. I remember at the age of 10 or so the police coming over to our house, despite being so young I knew it was wrong for the children to have to see and get involved in all of it, so instead I distracted them with games and sweets. It was an innocent act at the time, but as I look back, I wonder if it was right for me to have to do such a thing in a household full of adults? Moreover, growing up I quickly had to learn that there was no space for a child’s naivety in such a house, whenever arguments arose and I had tried to voice my childlike opinion or let my young emotional self overwhelm me, I was quickly blamed, punished and pushed aside. There was no time for me behave like a child in a house full of adults. I had to grow up. And I haven’t been able to go back to being a child ever since.

So those are the roots I believed to have cause my flaws, and I must say, my flaws themselves, through much effort, are slowly being pulled from the ground but it may be years before I can properly untangle myself from this over grown garden of weeds.

But  what do you reckon? Am I making excuses? – Actually, in retrospect, maybe I don’t want to know… maybe, as all of us are flawed human beings, we shouldn’t have to explain ourselves to other people. And maybe… just maybe:

We shouldn’t find people who will ‘put up with’ and ‘deal with’ our flaws,

Perhaps, instead we should find  someone who will appreciate us despite our flaws….

– Love Aery x

 

 

The Tale Of The Bird & The Rose

-[Dedicated To Someone Who May Never Read This…]-

She

found a seed once, with the potential to grow into something beautiful. So she planted it in her garden green; she watered, loved and nurtured it so she could watch it grow from a bud to a rose. Until eventually its soft white petals bloomed amongst the nettle leaves and became something of awe in that distasteful garden of hers. But she found herself struggling to care for it as the brambles and cruel nettles prevented her from tending to it without wounding herself; soon enough she gave up. With her eyes clouded with sadness; frustrated and distraught at her failure, she plucked it from the ground and left it to rot.

 

He

had a bird once, who sang beautiful songs for whomever it met. The bird sang songs that lifted even the weariest of souls and though the bird loved singing for others, it never sang for him; still he treasured the bird so long as it made those he loved happy.  But deep down inside, he harboured a sadness that of which yearned to hear a song dedicated to him. So he buried his sorrow into dedicating his time to teaching his bird to sing to others.

 

When the twilight embraced the sky one evening, things changed:

He stumbled across a rose one day, wilted and dying, he picked it up and it pricked his fingers and threatened to pierce his skin further. He wasn’t frightened though. Instead, he took the flower and hung it by his window, and it remained there for days, watching the wonder and beauty of the world outside.

She came across a bird one day that sang lovely melodies to her. She began to fall in love with the bird and the efforts it offered to every individual it met. But she noticed that it sang only in the presence of others and never for itself. So she sang to it, and it listened to her songs of woe and joy but mostly it listened to the way she sang only and especially for it.

 

When the dawn kissed the sky one morning, they met:

The rose had dried into a timeless beauty, and he adored the rose in all its unconventional magnificence, thorns and all.

The bird had evolved and sang wonderful harmonies not only to others but to itself as well, and she never let a day pass, where she didn’t especially dedicate a song to it.

When he saw the bird, it began singing to him, all the new songs that the girl used to sing, and the sadness he drowned with himself, overflowed and flooded him. But he was finally able to smile because the bird sang for him too.

When she saw the rose, she finally saw it for all its beauty and saw the world, from the window it was once hung by. It was then, that the darkness was lifted from her eyes and she appreciated the rose for all that it was and all that it suffered amongst the weeds and nettles that it grew in.

The two of them, thereafter, indulged in days filled with sweet songs that enlightened both their souls and gardens so rich in beauty it was near impossible to ever see different again…

 

photo

Awful painting by yours truly 🙂

…The End…

Blank Canvas or A Walking Work Of Beauty?

Hey Stalkers,

I’ve been wondering lately… what exactly is a ‘flaw’?

 

flaw1
flɔː/
noun
plural noun: flaws
  1.  
a mark, blemish, or other imperfection which mars a substance or object.
“a flaw in the glass”
 

 

Imperfection…

Perfection…

I’ve never really cared much for ‘perfection’ especially via media’s standards. I mean if you’re talking about weight and appearance-wise; I’ve grown to deem that every person had been created different, and that in its self is beauty.

Beauty is to embrace and love yourself; both appearance and soul

Recently however, I’ve been conversing with people and somehow we always come to the topic of girls and beauty. They usually say something along the lines of: ‘You’re beautiful/Pretty/Cute!’ Naturally it flatters me, but then again… It’s not until now that I’ve truly felt insecure about myself. It makes me question what they’d think if they saw all of me. What if he saw all of it?

Would he stop hugging me if he saw my uneven skin tone?

Would he stop kissing me if he saw my stretch marks?

Would he stop loving me if he saw my scars?

 

Wait. It takes a moment…

 

 

To step back; to close my eyes; to breathe; to see. .. That love isn’t perfection.

Love is to accept and embrace the imperfections

 

[TheIntroPerspective Photography]

There’s No Such Thing A Perfect… So that only leaves us to accept and appreciate the imperfect….

And such a thing as perfection doesn’t exist. At least that what I wish to think, I wish to believe that imperfections are more important than perfections and as for all these so-called flaws covering my canvas? They’re not flaws! They’re the segments of a beautiful master piece that can tell a million different stories about one beautiful girl who has lived and survived. Then, if that gentleman arrives – and he will arrive, believe me – and he can appreciate this work of art in all its beauty, then he’s the one who shall contribute to this work of art, completing its story.

Because that’s what we are. We’re all walking canvases painted, to tell a story, to show we’ve laughed and suffered and survived, to go on to live. And this misconception about ‘flaws’ doesn’t exist, it’s exactly that. A misconception. As ‘flaws’ do not subsist in the world of true art. Each splatter of paint is worked up to represent something. Our bodies and all that comes with it represent us. Sure, we may be messy; a little rough around the edges, but we’re still masterpieces… and we will be loved.

After all, whoever liked a blank canvas?

 

Take care,

My much beautiful Stalkers,

Let your canvases forever be imperfect… in the most stunning way….